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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505201">Devil in Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoeLawson/pseuds/JoeLawson'>JoeLawson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Apocalypse, Cannibalism, Competence Kink, Disturbing Themes, Don’t copy to another site, Easter Eggs, Ensemble Cast, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortality, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Screen Reader Friendly, Some Humor, Suicide, Therapy, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombie Children, shifting pov, so many zombie tropes y’all, some iffy ethics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 03:20:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27505201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoeLawson/pseuds/JoeLawson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Kozak experiments with the samples she took from Joe and Nicky and causes a zombie apocalypse, because that’s the kind of shit that happens when you play with immortal DNA.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Hunger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>If you’re worried about the <b>character death</b> tag and want to know in advance who dies for good: I put this particular spoiler in the <b>End Notes</b>.</p><p>Also, tagged for <b>cannibalism</b>, because the zombies in this aren't technically dead, so not technically zombies, which makes them eating other people technically cannibalism. Also, technically, one of our main characters takes a bite out of somebody at one point. ;)</p><p>This was inspired by a <a href="https://ladyjanelly.tumblr.com/post/626888492165857280/ladyjanelly-the-old-guard-in-the-zombie#_=_"><b>tumblr comment</b></a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanelly/pseuds/LadyJanelly"><b>ladyjanelly</b></a>. Thank you for the inspiration!!!</p><p>Betaed by Little Dragon and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattraine/pseuds/Cattraine"><b>Cattraine</b></a>, who are awesome and get all the hugs. </p><p>Also, I think that when they are talking among themselves, the Old Guard will use the languages they’re most comfortable using (i.e. Italian, Persian, French, whatever), but I spared myself and you the awkwardness that is Google Translate and kept the narration in English. Feel free to assume that Nicky and Joe are talking in Italian while in Vienna and Arabic in the woods and Latin in Paris and I did you the courtesy to translate it all for easier reading. ;)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Old Guard had made a mistake. </p><p>Well.  Two mistakes, really.  The first one had been not to kill Merrick’s head of research, Dr. Meta Kozak.  Kozak was one of the brightest minds of her time and, as a person, was both ambitious and obsessive.  This wouldn’t have been a problem if she hadn’t also been a cold-hearted bitch willing to vivisect innocent people to get what she wanted, as Joe and Nicky had learned the hard way.  </p><p>The second mistake was that they hadn’t destroyed her lab as soon as they left.  </p><p>In their defense, the rescue mission had been Nile’s priority and she hadn’t had the time or the resources to acquire the necessary explosives to take care of the problem at once.  She didn’t have the experience yet to know that it mattered, either.  So they came back that same night and blew up the entire top part of the building, destroying millions of dollars of equipment and all evidence of what had happened in those labs.  But for all their adaptability, the Old Guard still tended to think a bit old-fashioned sometimes and for all of their newest recruit’s skills, Nile Freeman was a soldier, not an IT specialist, and it didn’t occur to her immediately to think about cloud drives and data sharing.  </p><p>They didn’t even manage to destroy all the samples.  Kozak, when she staggered out of the building with a concussion so bad she had to be supported by two EMTs, was clutching a cooler in one hand.  The other – her right hand – was broken and swelling, fingers fractured and tendons ruptured by a thick-soled army boot stepping on it and grinding down hard.  (That would’ve been Nicky, who was too kind-hearted by far and really should’ve stepped on her head instead.) </p><p>The consequences weren’t immediate.  </p><p>First, it took Kozak a good long while to regroup.  Her damaged hand healed, though the fine motor skills were shot and she never regained full use of her fingers.  She didn’t go around screaming about immortals either, because she was smart and ruthless and she knew that without a powerful backer, her research would be stolen away from her.  Merrick had paid her well, but in the aftermath of his death, someone leaked a lot of dirt about his company, posthumously destroying both his personal reputation and casting suspicion on a lot of his company’s accomplishments.  (That would’ve been Copley, who was trying to atone and making Kozak’s life a lot harder in the process.) </p><p>The world kept turning.  </p><p>The Old Guard kept fighting the good fight, back to their old enthusiasm thanks to the sorely-needed fresh perspective James Copley had provided.  Nile introduced her new family to some decent music.  Joe loved it, Andy remained skeptical, and Nicky was too tone-deaf to care either way.  Andy stopped drinking and started the long process of adjusting her fighting style to her new circumstances, bitching about it every step of the way.  Joe and Nicky went to Malta, where Nicky got horribly sunburnt and Joe somehow managed to get food poisoning <i>twice</i> in their formerly favorite restaurant.  They concluded that you really can’t go back and rejoined Andy and Nile to make some new favorite memories.  </p><p>Meanwhile, Quynh resurfaced thanks to a curious octopus playing with the rusted hinges of her coffin.  She found Booker (mostly because he was the only one staying put) and tried to recruit him for a remarkably unhinged revenge plot worthy of a James Bond villain.  Booker, realizing that two-hundred-and-odd years of nightmares had finally come to an end and also that there was actually an immortal around who was in worse mental shape than he was, got stinking drunk one last time, cried on Quynh until she killed him, and then made it his mission to get them both into therapy.  It was an uphill battle, but it did keep him busy.  </p><p>While Booker was occupied with wrangling a furiously insane immortal ass-kicker and the rest of them were desperately trying to put the fear of death back into Andy, Meta Kozak found work with a US-based company specializing in dietary supplements.  There was a lot of money in this, even if it wasn’t her passion, and best of all, it was comparatively easy to procure the resources to work on her private projects in her spare time.  Her private projects being the few samples of immortal cells she’d saved from destruction and the data she’d salvaged from her cloud server before it had mysteriously evaporated.  </p><p>After a while, she realized that certain aspects of her private project might be easier to test when combined with her paid research and so, bit by bit, she began to use insights gleaned from her precious samples to boost the efficiency of the supplements she helped produce.  It wasn’t long before people actually noted a distinctive positive effect when taking the company’s products, which in turn improved sales, which gained Kozak not only a hefty pay raise but also the respect and admiration from her peers that she craved.  Kozak was in research heaven.  Funds, plenty of unknowing test subjects, and regular ego-stroking.  </p><p>A few studies picked up on some slightly odd effects Kozak’s formula had on the human metabolism, in that people who took the supplements tended to eat significantly more protein than people who didn’t, but they didn’t seem to gain weight or suffer any other negative consequences, so the fact was noted but not studied extensively.  </p><p>The Old Guard noticed nothing about this.  They kept an eye on medical developments, mostly regarding trauma management and emergency medicine, because that tended to overlap with their chosen profession.  They needed to be able to patch up wounded civilians or keep hostiles alive in order to gain information.  Dietary supplements were not even on their radar.  Copley picked up the 24-hour multivitamin mix at some point, because it made him stay clear-headed and alert for longer, which helped particularly during longer missions when he was more directly involved in his capacity as long-distance support.  </p><p>“Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of steak,” Nicky noted when he opened Copley’s fridge at one point in search of milk for his tea.  “And soda.  Are you hosting a barbecue?” </p><p>“Shut up, Nicky,” Copley told him amiably.  “It’s quick and easy and delicious.  Let’s not think back to how many cows <i>you</i> lot have devoured in your lifetimes.”  </p><p>“I’m vegetarian,” Nile declared, because this was a recent development.  Watching half a dozen people burn to death did that to you, even if they <i>had</i> shot her in the gut before Andy had started to throw Molotov cocktails.    </p><p>Joe smiled at her.  “Give it a year or two, you’ll be right back with us carnivores,” he promised.  </p><p>“Never,” Nile swore.  “I can still <i>smell</i> them.  I’m never eating meat again.”</p><p>“That is fine, too.”  Nicky resurfaced from the fridge with his milk and closed the door.  “There are plenty of very nice vegetarian dishes we haven’t cooked in a while.  It’ll be fun.” </p><p>Andy shuddered.  “Oh fuck, he’s going to start experimenting again.”  </p><p>This led to a lively discussion about Nicky’s culinary adventures and by the time they moved on to different topics, they had forgotten about the baffling amount of steak in Copley’s fridge.  And that was pretty much how it went in most households around the globe where Kozak’s miracle supplements were used.</p><hr/><p>The real problem arose when a major soft drink empire noticed that it was taking dips in sales, because the new supplements were doing a better job than their own sugar and caffeine-laden concoctions.  The only possible reaction in a time where you couldn’t simply firebomb your competition was to buy the rights to the patent and then include it in your own product.  And that turned out to be a bad idea.  Especially since they decided not to work with the scientist behind the development.  </p><p>Kozak had created the synthetic carriers based on her private research but on company time, so they belonged to the company to keep or sell with no obligation to include her in the deal.  She had also used company resources and diverted money to fund her project, which was discovered in the pre-sale audit.  She had to strike a deal to avoid prosecution and was forced to part ways with the company.  Kozak did not appreciate the perceived slight, so she tweaked the formula one last time, took her secret samples and her research regarding possible cumulative side effects, and disappeared.  Nobody gave a damn at the time and nobody noticed that a comma had been moved.  </p><p>This particular soft drink company with its red and white logo had built its brand patiently over decades.  It had holdings and distribution centers worldwide.  Its products were sold in places where people didn’t have access to most other Western amenities, such as computers or air conditioning or fresh water.  It was a true global brand.  Booker had officially barfed out its most famous soda on all seven continents, because he kept trying to beat the Mentos effect.  Though, technically, in Antarctica, he’d thrown up over the railing of a passing ship, so Andy would’ve refused to count that one, if she’d known of this particularly weird accomplishment.  </p><p>The point was, the company’s products were available worldwide.  Of course, not everybody consumed them or even ended up with the new formula, but plenty of people did and the result was devastating.</p><hr/><p>“Something’s wrong.”</p><p>Andy frowned and glanced at her phone screen, checking the caller ID again.  “Copley?  What’s going on?”</p><p>“I don’t– I can’t– I’m so <i>hungry</i>, Andy!”  It was Copley, but he sounded different, uncharacteristically stressed and urgent.  He sucked in a breath with a hitch almost like a choked-off sob.  </p><p>Andy put down the book she’d been reading and sat up straight, a stab of worry lancing through her stomach.  If she’d learned anything in her long, long time on earth, it was how to recognize the sound of serious trouble.  Certain tones of voice made alarms shrill in her mind and this was definitely such a tone.  “Why don’t you eat something then?” </p><p>“I did.”  Another little choke-sob, and Andy did not like this at all, because this was not the James Copley she’d gotten to know and appreciate during the past few years.  Copley was always in control of himself, even if he wasn’t in control of the situation.  “I ate it all, Andy.  I ate it <i>raw</i>, but it’s not–”  </p><p>“Not what, Copley?”</p><p>“Not <i>fresh</i> enough,” Copley whispered hoarsely.  “I don’t want dead meat, Andy.  I want– Jesus Christ. I want it still bleeding.” </p><p>This was the point when Andy grabbed her book again and threw it through the open doorway at Nile, who was passing by on her way to the bedrooms.  Nile flailed, batted the book away before it hit her in the face, and jerked around indignantly.  The look on Andy’s face was enough to make her swallow the “what the fuck?!?” that had been imminent and come over quickly.  Andy mouthed “Copley” and put the phone on speaker.  </p><p>“What’s going on with you, Copley?” Andy asked, keeping her voice crisp and professional.  No judgment here.  “Did something happen?” </p><p>“No!”  It was a yell, desperate and borderline hysteric, so unlike the efficient, collected man they both knew it made both their eyes widen in shock.  “Everything was normal!  I ate dinner.  I checked the Hoffman data and the satellite feeds and then…”  He sniffed, deeply.  Not an about-to-cry sniff.  A scenting sniff that sounded almost cartoonishly dog-like through the phone.  “Someone’s at the door.  I can smell her, Andy.  I think she has food.”  </p><p>“Oh, no.  No, no, no.”  Nile grabbed the phone from Andy.  “Copley?  It’s Nile.  Do <i>not</i> open that door.  You hear me?  This is horror movie 101.  Do.  Not.  Open.  That.  Door.”</p><p>“It smells so good.”</p><p>Nile’s tone dipped into drill sergeant range.  “I said, do not open that door.  Where are you right now?” </p><p>“Kitchen,” Copley said, sullenly.  “I ate all my steaks.  <i>Raw</i>.  I can’t stress that enough… and I’m still <i>hungry</i>, Nile.” </p><p>“Close the kitchen door.” </p><p>There was a brief pause.  Both women listened intently.  After what felt like an eternity, they heard footsteps and then then the squeak of hinges and the click of a lock.  In the background, Copley’s doorbell rang.  Copley moaned.  </p><p>“Copley, listen to me,” Nile ordered, still in that drill sergeant voice.  “Do you have your laptop with you?”  Copley was a workaholic who was known to eat dinner while researching, so she figured chances were pretty good.  </p><p>Copley huffed out a shaky breath.  “Yes.  I got it.”  </p><p>“Okay.”  Nile glanced at Andy, but Andy just gave her a slight nod.  <i>Keep going.</i>  “All right,” Nile said, trying to focus past the worry.  Copley did not sound healthy.  “Take it and sit down in the corner by the outlet.  Let’s see if we can find out what’s going on.  Can you do that?” </p><p>The corner by the outlet was furthest away from the door and the window and if Copley was sitting on the ground, he wouldn’t be able to get anywhere quickly.  They heard the doorbell still, but now someone was banging on the front door, too.  </p><p>“Maybe he should check who it is?” Nile murmured.  </p><p>Andy shook her head.  “No.  He’s being weird and he said he wants to eat still bleeding meat.  I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s probably not a good idea to have him interact with other people right now.” </p><p>“I heard that,” Copley said and for a second, he sounded almost like himself, wry and a little exasperated.  He sighed.  “I agree with you.  What do you want me to do?” </p><p>Nile shot Andy a panicked look.  Andy shrugged.  “Google your symptoms?” </p><p>Nile’s face rearranged itself into disbelief.  </p><p>Andy scowled.  “I’m not the research person here.  You are, Copley.  So do some fucking research.”  In the background, the pounding stopped.  A woman screamed and didn’t stop screaming.  “Do <i>not</i> open the fucking door,” Andy said immediately.  “Nile, call 911.  Copley, you stay on the phone with me.” </p><p>Copley breathed deeply.  “I think I smell blood.  It smells good.  Andy, why does it smell good?”  </p><p>“Because you’re fucked up,” Andy said promptly.  “Start researching.  Do your job, this is what you’re good at.  Grab an orange or something and stuff it under your nose if the smell distracts you and <i>do your fucking job</i>.” </p><p>“I can’t just sit here and research when someone’s being murdered right in front of my apartment,” Copley groaned.  </p><p>Andy ran a hand through her hair in frustration.  This long-distance thing was not working for her.  “Think for a second and give me an honest answer.  What are you going to do if you open that door and there’s someone on the ground, bleeding?” </p><p>She heard Copley swallow heavily.  He was quiet for a minute.  The screams were growing fainter.  Andy glanced at Nile, checking on her progress, but Nile shook her head.  “Line’s busy,” she whispered.  </p><p>“Copley,” Andy snapped, sharply.  “Answer my fucking question.” </p><p>“I’m gonna administer first aid,” Copley said, but his tone was off.  </p><p>Andy glared at the phone, not for the first time wishing she could teleport.  “You’re lying.  Fucking pull yourself together.  911 is not answering.  Tell me why.”</p><p>Giving Copley a new task worked; she heard the soft tapping of the keys start up.  “Try the nearest police station,” Copley told them as he worked.  “It might be an equipment error.  Andy… where are you?” </p><p>“We’re in southern Arizona right now.  Give me twenty minutes to secure us tickets and we can be in New York in–” </p><p>“No.”  Copley sounded adamant, fully focused again.  “Don’t.  Let me check something first.  Just.  Wait.”</p><p>Andy frowned at the phone.  “All right.”</p><p>Copley went quiet again for a few minutes, the faint clacking of computer keys the only indication he was still on the line.  Nile gave up on 911, checked the emergency service websites for alternatives, and started calling other numbers.  Judging by the way her shoulders were rising, she wasn’t getting anywhere.  </p><p>“Oh my God,” Copley whispered after a while.  “Andy, it’s not only me, there’s alerts and reports popping up all over social media about people going crazy and attacking other people.  They’re <i>eating</i> them, Andy.  They’re <i>eating</i> them.”  They heard a faint growl, a gurgling and whining.  </p><p>Nile looked up, alarmed.  “Was that your stomach, Copley?” </p><p>Copley hissed out a breath.  “I’m fucking <i><b>hungry</b></i>, Nile, I fucking <i>told you that</i>.”</p><p>“Calm down,” Andy ordered sharply.  “Is there any indication what caused this, Copley?  And where the hotspots are?” </p><p>“No, there aren’t any indications,” Copley snapped back, increasingly irritated.  “I don’t know what triggered me either.  I was eating dinner and suddenly the fucking Brussel sprouts weren’t doing it for me anymore.  I don’t want you anywhere near me right now, Andy.  It’s not safe.  <i>I’m</i> not safe.  Stay where you are until we figure out what’s going on.  Stay inside.”  He chuckled gravelly.  “Don’t open the door.”  </p><p>“It’s not just New York,” Nile threw in, aiming for calm and missing by a mile.  She held out her phone to show Andy a screen full of messages.  “People are going nuts all over the world.”  </p><p>“Yeah,” Copley said, voice tight.  “And I’m gonna join them soon.  The orange is not helping much, Andy.” </p><p>Andy breathed out deeply.  “All right,” she said.  “All right.  Let’s make the best of the time we have then.  You with me, James?” </p><p>Copley sighed shakily.  “I’m with you, Andromache.”  </p><p>And he was.</p><hr/><p>In the end, Copley didn’t even make it through a day before he succumbed.  Thirteen hours, to be precise.  </p><p>During that time, he was never completely alone.  When he wasn’t buried in research, he talked on the phone to Andy, Nile, and a little later to Nicky and Joe, who were hunkered down in a small apartment in Vienna, Austria, chewed up like dog-toys by a mob of cannibalistic crazy people and not happy about how long it was taking them to heal.  They <i>were</i> healing, and much faster than regular mortals would’ve, but by their standards, it was taking forever for the wounds to disappear.  </p><p>The governments in Europe had already imposed quarantines and curfews and were trying to corral the people who had turned into rampaging cannibals, but so far, the situation was escalating too quickly for them to get a lock on it, especially in the big cities.  It didn’t help that it wasn’t a pandemic in the regular sense, but an unpredictable, extremely violent event without precedence that thinned out the numbers of police, military, and medical personnel just as much as the civilian population.  </p><p>They couldn’t reach Booker, but Nile left him messages about Copley’s findings and their subsequent plans.  </p><p>“We’ll meet in Dolwyddelan,” she told his voicemail.  “Andy says you know where.” </p><p><i>Rendezvous in Dolwyddelan</i>, she texted.  (She had to type Dolwyddelan four times to get it right and her autocorrect was not happy with her at all in the end.)  </p><p>“Andy says this is a postponement, not a pardon,” she told his voicemail. </p><p><i>Andy is worried</i>, she texted, because that fact freaked her out the most.  And, <i>Don’t get bitten.  Copley says this thing is mutating.  Nicky still has a scar.</i></p><p>She did not write about how anxious Joe was about the scar that should not be.  Or how scared she was about her own family.  She did not write about how worried they all were about Andy, who was so damn vulnerable now and so nerve-wrackingly nonchalant about it.  </p><p>“If it’s my time, it’s my time.”  </p><p>Nile’s pretty brown ass.  In the past few hours, she’d seen a teenager and an elderly lady team up to bring down a six-foot-something trucker armed with a baseball bat and bash in his skull to get at his brain.  She’d seen one deputy cut open his partner with a hunting knife to dig into his guts while the poor bastard was still howling like a banshee.  Andy was without a doubt the most badass badass to ever badass, but nobody could tell Nile she was indifferent to the idea of going out like that.  There were plenty of bad ways to go, all things considered, but there was something viscerally horrifying about being eaten alive.  </p><p>Nile had never felt more vegetarian in her entire life. </p><p>Eight hours in, Copley sent her a file and a link with the simple note, <i>I’m sorry, Nile.</i> </p><p>The link led to her aunt’s Facebook page, where she found a grief-stricken eulogy, short, riddled with uncharacteristic typos, and devastating in its stark recounting of unbearable loss.  Both Nile’s mom and her brother were dead.  So were her two cousins.  He uncle was severely injured and in the hospital.  Her aunt was locked up in her apartment, quarantined and all alone.  And just like that, most of Nile’s family was gone.  </p><p>The file was a video file.  Nile’s finger hovered over the icon for a long time, but she couldn’t bring herself to click on it.  When she couldn’t take the uncertainty any longer, she went to Andy and wordlessly handed her the phone.  Andy looked at her with those ancient eyes full of sorrow and Nile almost broke down then and there.  They both knew what she’d find, because Copley was big on evidence, but Nile knew she couldn’t watch this and remain functional.  </p><p>“I can’t,” she told Andy, and her voice was a choked-off little thing that didn’t sound like her at all.  </p><p>“How much do you want to know?” Andy asked simply.  Her hand holding the cell phone was steady as a rock. </p><p>“No details,” Nile rasped out.  Her own hands were trembling so badly she had to stuff them into her pants pockets to keep them still.  “Just… just the basics.” </p><p>Andy nodded and jerked her chin toward the door.  Nile nodded woodenly and left the room.  She curled up on her bed, hugged herself, and tried not to think.  She’d mourned her family before, when she’d left them behind, believing her dead, but there was a major difference between grieving for someone’s company and grieving for their life, as she was finding out right then.  </p><p>Before, her mom and her little bro had been still on this earth with her, walking a different path maybe, but <i>there</i>, a steady thrum in the back of her mind.  If all else failed, she’d thought sometimes, when the nights were dark and she was homesick and so very overwhelmed by this new life she was living, if she couldn’t take it anymore, she could always go back.  Her mom might cry and her brother might yell, but they’d take her in and they’d love her, because that was what family did.  And even if she’d outlive them, it’d be years and years before she had to face that final cut.  It wasn’t supposed to happen so soon.  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. </p><p>She was so busy fighting her tears she barely noticed the dip of the mattress when Andy sat down on the bed next to her.  Andy’s hand appeared in her field of vision, offering a dishtowel.  That made her turn her head and blink owlishly.  </p><p>Andy shrugged apologetically.  “Didn’t find any tissues,” she explained.  “I don’t think we even have any, and I didn’t want to bring you toilet paper.” </p><p>It was that slightly awkward sweetness that made Nile’s eyes run over at last.  She sniffled wetly and grabbed the towel.  “Let me have it.” </p><p>“Your brother was the one affected,” Andy said.  “He was in a video conference with his community college study group, that’s how Copley got the footage.” </p><p>She didn’t need to say more.  Nile’s little brother was taking after their fallen father in physical appearance and after his last growth spurt, he’d towered over both Nile and their mother.  Mom wouldn’t have stood a chance.  </p><p>That’s when the tears really started and Nile pressed the rough cotton towel against her hot face and bawled like a baby.  Andy didn’t try to talk to her, but a few minutes into the deluge, she curled her body around Nile’s and held her, warm and solid.  It felt like being a child again, protected and loved, <i>sheltered</i>, and it made Nile cry even harder.  She was nobody’s baby anymore.  She was nobody’s child.  With the death of her mama, she was officially, irrevocably on her own.  No more emotional safety net.  Her mom wasn’t only a phone-call away now and she couldn’t even reach out to the only other person in the world who would’ve shared her grief wholeheartedly.  </p><p>Nile could never go home again.</p><hr/><p>When Copley snapped, it happened fast.  </p><p>“I sent you some info,” he told Andy, who was on phone duty, his voice thin and far away.  Cell phone reception had been getting worse for the past few hours or so.  “Did you get it?”</p><p>Andy woke her laptop and found a download link waiting.  A small eternity later, several big files were saved on her hard drive.  “I got it.” </p><p>Copley heaved a sigh of relief.  “I followed a hunch and it panned out.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry, Andy.  This one’s on me.  I should’ve kept an eye on her.  I shoud’ve–”  His voice cut off, then drifted back in on a crackle of static.  “I can’t go on,” he said, and there was a finality to his tone that made Andy bow her head and close her eyes.  </p><p>“You did good, James,” she said firmly.  “Thank you for all that you’ve done for us.” </p><p>Copley sniffed once, either to scent his trusty orange or because he was crying.  She couldn’t tell.  “It was an honor,” he rasped finally.  “Thank you for letting me be part of this.  It’s easier, knowing you all are still out there.  Tell Nicky thank you for the gun.” </p><p>Andy smiled faintly.  “I will.”  </p><p>“Don’t worry,” Copley said.  “I destroyed everything and rigged this place to blow.  I won’t leave you compromised.  Don’t know if it’ll even matter anymore, but… you know.  You’re as safe as I could make you.” </p><p>“We appreciate it,” Andy told him gently.   </p><p>“Goodbye, Andromache.”</p><p>“Sleep easy, my friend.” </p><p>She waited until she heard the sharp report of Nicky’s Glock and then she sat unmoving until, with a roaring bang, the line went dead.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Tooth and Nail</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Vienna, Austria</b>
</p><p>Joe let the curtain drop back down and returned to the couch with a sigh.  “Does it make me a bad person that I wish this was the Black Death again?” he asked, only half joking.  </p><p>Nicky lifted his book so Joe could flop over and put his head in Nicky’s lap.  “Wishing for something doesn’t make you a bad person.  Any reason in particular why you want the plague back?” </p><p>“Because,” Joe growled, one accusing finger stabbing through the air and waving in the rough direction of the window, “if it was the Black Death, people would be considerate enough to lie the fuck down and die instead of blocking the streets and trying to kill everything in sight.” </p><p>“Are you still mad about that pigeon?” </p><p>“He ate it <i>from the butt up</i>!” Joe hissed, trying to tug the book out of Nicky’s hands, the better to glare at him.  “Raw.  Feathers up his nose.  Shit running down his chin.  <i>Who does that?!</i>” </p><p>“Someone sick with whatever this is, apparently.”  Nicky slapped Joe’s fingers off his book and lifted it out of reach, peering down at his partner with a frown.  “Cabin fever?” </p><p>“No.”  Joe sighed.  “Yes.  A little.  I wish we could do more.” </p><p>“We tried,” Nicky reminded him.  </p><p>They’d collected quite a number of civilians at the beginning, and had successfully hidden them away in an office building.  Everything had been fine for a day or so and then three of them had gone mad almost simultaneously and had started to slaughter the others.  Joe and Nicky had been forced to kill them.  They’d been quick about it, but the damage had been done – the panicked people had thrown open the doors and a group from the outside had seen them and, well.  That had been it.  Instant howling madness.  They hadn’t been able to save a single one of their charges.  Joe and Nicky had fought their way through it eventually and gotten away, but not unscathed.  </p><p>It took some effort not to touch the silvery bite scar on his flank.  It had taken them hours to heal from their wounds, much longer than it should have, and this one just wouldn’t go away.  It looked fainter, Nicky thought, and it wasn’t puffy and red anymore, but it was still visible.  He knew Joe was hyperaware of it as well, not least because he’d turned his head again and was breathing against Nicky’s side, where the scar was hidden underneath his t-shirt.  Goosebumps rose on his skin, both from the intimate warmth and the weird tingle the scar sent shivering through him occasionally.  </p><p>“I’m all right,” he reminded Joe softly.  “Still immortal, my love.”  </p><p>They’d checked.  They <i>still</i> checked, semi-regularly, slicing into the skin on Nicky’s forearm with a knife – always a shallow cut, just in case – and then they watched intently as the wound stitched itself back together.  It always did, without fail, but the worry remained.  The fact that Andy had turned mortal only a few years before didn’t help.  It had made them very aware again that they <i>did</i> have an expiration date, but nobody had bothered to print it on the package.  </p><p>“I know.”  Joe twisted a bit further and pressed his forehead against Nicky’s stomach.  Nicky tossed his book down on the couch and pulled him closer.  Despite everything that was going on, he was content.  They were still alive, still together.  Nicky could deal with a whole lot of shit, as long as he had that.  </p><p>They soaked up each other’s presence for a long time, Joe breathing steadily against Nicky’s middle, safe in the cradle of his strong arms, not talking, not thinking.  </p><p>“Sooner or later, they’re gonna sniff us out,” Nicky said after a while, his thumb stroking gently over Joe’s shoulder.    </p><p>Joe didn’t move.  “I know.” </p><p>They were trapped in the 9th district, near the Rossauer Barracks and the university buildings.  The area was swarming with cannibal hunting parties.  Zombies, Andy called them.  Fast zombies.  “They eat people, they don’t speak, they are entirely instinct-driven and show no sign of human awareness,” she’d said, with the kind of authority that came from watching way too many zombie movies.  Andy’s way of dealing with her newfound mortality had taken some morbid turns here and there.  “I don’t care what the media says, they’re fuckin’ zombies.  We’re not doing the stupid <i>Walking Dead</i> thing and calling them anything else.  Call a spade a spade.” </p><p>For all intents and purposes, they probably were.  Zombies, that was, not spades.  By this point, Joe honestly hoped there was no cure, because he didn’t think anybody should ever have to come back from this.  Better to think of these people as gone, every kill a mercy killing.  It was easier than he’d expected, but then, maybe not.  They had watched so many generations of people come and go without ever forming lasting relationships with any of them, there was a certain degree of separation there.  It wasn’t that they didn’t <i>care</i> for humanity.  They did.  After all this time, all the cruelty and horror they’d survived, they still loved the colorful bustle that was humankind, with their creativity and kindness and humor.  It had simply become easier to detach from certain elements within society, which made it infinitely easier to kill those that needed killing. It was, as Booker had once said, a little bit psycho, but who cared as long as they remained mostly sane?  </p><p>“If we make it to the canal, we can drift down to the Danube and out of the city,” Nicky mused, still stroking Joe’s shoulder.  “Make for the Scharndorf cache.” </p><p>“I want to stay in contact with Andy for as long as possible,” Joe said into his shirt.  “Cell phone service isn’t going to last much longer at this rate.  It’ll be easy to miss a call when we’re on the move.” </p><p>“We’ll wait then,” Nicky agreed easily.  </p><p>Outside, someone got flushed out of their hiding spot and screeched desperately as they were taken down.  Or maybe it was one of the cannibals.  Zombies.  Whatever you wanted to call them.  They did tend to savage each other if they couldn’t find easier prey.  And while they didn’t <i>talk</i>, they could scream just fine, which made it a lot harder to tell if the victim was an innocent bystander or not.  The rule of thumb was that if it jackknifed up and tried to bite off your face the second you had dispatched of the attacker, it hadn’t been a bystander.  As identification methods went, this left something to be desired.  </p><p>Joe pressed closer to Nicky and reminded himself that dying was temporary and death a relief.  Plus, there were so many zombies out there any rescue attempt would’ve been a suicide mission.  And Nicky was still carrying that bite scar. </p><p>So they waited it out reluctantly, clinging to each other on the couch.  They didn’t relax until the screaming stopped.  After a few minutes, Nicky started to pet Joe’s shoulder again.  Joe sighed and twisted a little so he could look up at his favorite face, admiring the majestic angle of his dear love’s magnificent nose.  </p><p>“You know what?”</p><p>“What?” Nicky asked, obediently.  </p><p>“I think I might go vegetarian again.”  </p><p>“Yeah,” Nicky sighed. “Me, too.”  </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Moscow, Russia</b>
</p><p>“Fuck my life,” Booker snarled, and ducked to throw a salivating grandmother in a blue housedress over his shoulder.  Then he turned back and fired four rounds into her head before she could get back up.  He’d learned the hard way that little old ladies made the most tenacious foes… and not only when they had inexplicably turned into crazed cannibal killers.  He didn’t want her to rear back up to chew through his ankle while he was busy elsewhere.  “How the fuck did this happen?  They had it under control!  Things were fine!”  </p><p>“This is what happens when people get.  Too.  Fucking!  <i>Cocky</i>!”  Quynh finished her last swing, lowered the fire axe she’d acquired, and spat out a mouthful of blood.  A gooey chunk of what looked suspiciously like brain matter slowly slid down her cheek until she flicked it away with a finger.  All in all, she looked damn near cheerful, probably because even after years of working through her trauma, violence was still Quynh’s favorite outlet.  </p><p>“We need to figure out what triggers this shit,” Booker said grimly.  He looked around for more cannibals, but except for some distant screams, the area had turned quiet again.  </p><p>Moscow did have a pretty good grip on this thing overall, mostly because the sudden-onset madness that had gripped the world practically overnight was more prevalent in some areas and less so in others, and Russia was one of the less affected places.  For the most part, anyway.  </p><p>Quynh glanced up from where she was looting the bodies, because ancient as she was, she’d never let go of certain battlefield habits.  “I’m telling you, it’s the soda.  That fat guy on the plane had some before he attempted to eat the flight attendant.  And the lady in the duty-free shop was sipping on one, too.  Coincidence?  I think not.”  She rummaged through the dead grandmother’s purse and let out a triumphant grunt.  “Ha.  See?”  She waved a can of soda at him.  “She has one, too.  It’s the soda, Booker.” </p><p>Booker remained skeptical.  “There’s hundreds of brands of soda.  Even if it <i>is</i> the soda–”  He quickly raised his hand to forestall any declarations of victory, “–and I’m not saying I’m buying your theory, but they can’t all be contaminated.  We’d be completely overrun if every kind of soda triggered homicidal rages.”</p><p>“I’ve noticed.”  Quynh nodded sagely.  “People love sugar.”  </p><p>“Says the woman who puts <i>three heaping spoons</i> full in her coffee.”  </p><p>Quynh’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  “Would you rather I went back to starting the day by killing you?” </p><p>While that <i>had</i> been cathartic for a while, Booker had to admit that he didn’t really miss it, either.  Yay, therapy.  They had both learned to redirect their harmful impulses.  Somewhat.  On some days.  “Who am I to tell you how to drink your coffee?” </p><p>“Exactly.”  Quynh inclined her head regally, satisfied with his quick deference.  She spun around and walked away from the grisly tableau they’d created.  Booker hurried to catch up so he could nudge her toward their hotel.  Quynh had a lousy sense of direction.  If left to her own devices, she would always head for trouble, no matter what the intended destination had been.  </p><p>They’d been on their way to Mongolia via Vyazma when the record rise in assault and cannibalism had stopped them in their tracks.  Booker and Quynh had mixed feelings about that.  It wasn’t like humanity had collectively decided to go nuts specifically to hinder their therapeutic progress, but the timing was inconvenient to say the least.  Booker had planned to visit the place of his first death to try and make peace with his new life.  Quynh had decided to go where she’d first met Andy to reconnect with her good memories of her friend and hopefully let go of the resentment and blame that had built up during five hundred years of constantly drowning alone at the bottom of the ocean.  </p><p>They had expected uncomfortable outpourings of emotion.  Tears.  Snot.  Grief.  Possibly nostalgia.  A certain, unavoidable level of awkwardness and mortification.  Way too much honesty and/or denial.  They’d discussed all of it with their long-suffering therapist, a very goal-oriented German trauma specialist who had probably regretted her obligation to confidentiality at several points during the past few years, but who – to her credit – had held up admirably and been very helpful.  Maybe she had sensed that betrayal or failure would lead to a grisly end at Quynh’s little murder hands.  Or maybe she was just that professional.  She certainly was exceptionally well-paid, because money, Booker had learned, generally bought a decent amount of loyalty.  </p><p>During their last session before this trip, she had warned them that confronting their pasts on location might stir up a lot of memories and anxieties, and they had prepared for the fallout.  Booker had brought tissues.  Quynh had left her emotional support throwing knives behind.  They had been on top of this.  </p><p>Cue the cannibal outbreak on the plane.  And the cannibal outbreak at the airport.  And the cannibal outbreak during their illegal quarantine-breaking in the name of reconnaissance and midnight snacks.  </p><p>“We can still finish this trip,” Booker offered as they trudged along, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.  </p><p>Quynh sighed and shifted the axe on her shoulder.  The blade was sticky with blood.  Not her most inconspicuous look, Booker noted, but he didn’t tell her to throw the thing away.  Mad people were remarkably hard to kill and you couldn’t always rely on them bringing their own weapons for you to take.  </p><p>“I keep thinking about Andromache,” Quynh admitted after another minute of silent walking.  She kept her gaze on the surrounding area instead of on Booker.  </p><p>“Me, too,” Booker admitted.  </p><p>“I hate that she’s mortal now.”  Quynh kicked a pebble and watched tensely as it flew into the darkness, but the squeak that followed was clearly a rodent squeak and not a person squeak, so she kept moving steadily.  “This could kill her.” </p><p>“Yes,” Booker said, because he’d been thinking about that ever since the skirmish at the airport.  </p><p>They’d never know, either, not if they proceeded on their little mental health tour.  The Russian authorities had cut internet access even before their plane had landed and the civilian phone network had broken down suspiciously fast, too.  He couldn’t even check his messages to see if someone had tried to get into contact with him.  He figured that, under the circumstances, the others would at least send him a heads-up or something.  Thanks to modern technology, his exile wasn’t quite as strict as it would’ve been a hundred or even fifty years before.  It was too easy to send a text message now and again.  Maybe make a quick call on special occasions.  Like, for example, when the world was tipping into some kind of zombie apocalypse.  </p><p>“I know I’m probably not quite there yet,” Quynh continued, so completely unemotional Booker knew she had to be uncomfortable as hell, “but I think I need to see her.”  </p><p>“Hmm,” Booker said.  He glanced at her carefully.  “Are you gonna try and kill her?” </p><p>“Probably not.”  </p><p>“That’s not gonna fly, Quynh.”  Booker swayed a little closer, so his arm brushed her shoulder on their next step, then let himself drift away again.  Reassurance didn’t always have to be verbal.  </p><p>Quynh huffed out an annoyed breath, but she stayed close to him, which was a good sign.  “I’m not going to kill her.” </p><p>“Good.” </p><p>“I might kill you, if I get nervous.” </p><p>Booker rolled his eyes.  “You do what you need to do.  It’s not gonna stick anyway.” </p><p>Quynh shot him a stern look.  “And that’s a good thing.”  </p><p>Booker swallowed.  “And that’s a good thing,” he confirmed.  Damn it, how was this still so hard?  </p><p>“Because life is a gift,” Quynh continued, ruthlessly. </p><p>“Because life is a gift,” Booker repeated, squirming uncomfortably.  He hated these affirmations.  </p><p>“Okay.  Then let’s figure out how to get back to a working cell phone network,” Quynh decided, letting him off the hook for once.  </p><p>Booker sighed in relief.  “Okay.”  </p><p>“We should steal a car.” </p><p>Booker shrugged.  “Okay.”  </p><p>“I’m driving.”  </p><p>“Ha, ha, no.  No, you’re not.” </p><p> </p><p><b>I-10, Arizona<br/>en route to Las Vegas, Nevada</b> </p><p>“We need to find a print shop.” </p><p>It was the first thing Andy had said since she’d informed Nile of Copley’s passing and that they needed to make their way to Las Vegas, because that’s where they’d stashed their nearest plane.  Nile, who’d been busy with her own grief and honestly not all that interested in what happened next, looked up from her phone.  She’d been staring at one of the few family pictures she had left, of her, her mom, and her brother at her uncle’s birthday party.  It had been taken a few weeks before she’d been deployed to Afghanistan and had lost everything.  It took her a minute to force her mind back to the present, but then she frowned. </p><p>“Why?” </p><p>Andy slowed down to maneuver around a car parked sideways across the road.  There was movement inside, two small shapes bent over two bigger lumps slumped over on the front seats.  Nile only looked at it from the corner of her eye and tried to convince her brain that she was seeing two dogs tearing at blankets.  That was all.  Just two dogs.  One of them might’ve been wearing a pink princess dress, but people put all kinds of shit on dogs nowadays, didn’t they?  Everything was fine.  </p><p>“Shit,” Andy grunted and stopped the car.  </p><p>“What are you doing?” Nile asked, alarmed.  </p><p>Andy shot her a look and reached back to grab her labrys, which was always within easy reach.  “Coup de grace,” she said shortly.  “Wait here.” </p><p>“No, wait,” Nile grabbed her arm, suddenly very much in the present again.  “You can’t.  They’re–” <i>dogs dogs dogs those are dogs</i> “–children.” </p><p>“Not anymore, they aren’t.” </p><p>“You don’t know that!” Nile gestured blindly at the car, keeping her gaze fixed on Andy, because those weren’t blankets either the children were chewing on and she knew it.  “This isn’t a horror flick!  What if they find a cure?  What if they can <i>fix this</i>?” </p><p>Andy stared back at her, stone-faced.  “What do you want me to do?” </p><p>Nile flailed helplessly.  “Keep driving.  Just.  Leave them be.” </p><p>“Now that’s not mercy,” Andy chided.  “It’s about thirty-four degrees out there already.”  She noticed Nile’s blank look and rolled her eyes.  “Mid-nineties Fahrenheit, if you prefer.  They’ll overheat and die and it won’t be pretty.  My way’s faster.”</p><p>“We can take them with us.  And– and drop them off at a hospital or something.” </p><p>“Nile–”</p><p>“<i>We are not killing children, Andy,</i>” Nile yelled, livid.  “I don’t care how fucked-up they are.  Put down the fucking axe!” </p><p>“Fine.”  Andy let the weapon slide back into its harness and leaned back in her seat.  “You go collect them then.  Have fun and don’t let them bite you.”  </p><p>Right.  Andy was mortal.  Not a good idea to put her on point for a retrieval mission when she wasn’t allowed to hurt the hostiles.  Nile swallowed and finally looked over to the other car.  The girl in the pink dress was staring back at her with unnerving focus.  She was still chewing, but her attention was on Nile and Andy.  She didn’t look disturbed or unhappy with her situation.  She looked like an animal gorging itself on a cadaver and thinking about sinking its teeth into some even fresher meat.  </p><p>“You can borrow my leather jacket,” Andy offered.  “They probably won’t be able to bite through that at first try.” </p><p>“Fuck,” Nile breathed, but there wasn’t much to do but put on the jacket and get to it.  This had been her idea, after all.  And it was the right thing to do.  Real life wasn’t a zombie movie, goddamn it.  It wasn’t.  These people – these <i>children</i> – were sick, but they were still alive.  They weren’t the walking dead, they weren’t monsters.  There was still a chance they might get to go back to normal at some point in the future.  And kids were pretty adaptable, right?  Those two might be able to get past what they’d done and live good lives still.  They simply needed a little help right now.  Also, they were pretty small.  How hard could it be to get them out of that car and secure them?</p><hr/><p>An hour later, leather jacket in tatters, blood drying in a sticky layer on her skin, Nile sank into the passenger seat again, sore, sweaty, and not a little traumatized.  </p><p>“Are you healing?” Andy asked neutrally. </p><p>Nile looked down at her right hand and watched the last of her index and middle fingers grow back.  She lifted the remains of the jacket out of the way and checked the deep lacerations along her torso, then lifted her leg and wiped away the blood to inspect the deep bites on her ankle and calf.  “Yeah,” she said finally.  “All good.” </p><p>“Hmm.”  Andy glanced into the rearview mirror at the two trussed up, writhing bundles in her backseat.  “Should’ve put them in the trunk.”  </p><p>“I’m not stuffing children into a car trunk,” Nile said through gritted teeth, though she had to admit, a part of her agreed with Andy.  The sounds emanating from behind her were making the hair at the back of her neck stand up.  She <i>knew</i> she’d tied them securely, but the idea of driving for hours with two thoroughly insane bite-machines an arm’s length away did not fill her with joy.  Unfortunately, Andy had been right about the heat.  If she put them into the trunk until they reached the nearest hospital, the kids would be slow-roasted like pulled pork.  </p><p>“Just for the record, this is a spectacularly bad idea,” Andy said, “also, didn’t you want to bury the bodies, too?” </p><p>Nile sank deeper into her seat and scowled at the windshield, because if she looked at Andy’s no doubt perfectly indifferent face, she was going to feel even more like a hypocrite.  “We don’t have a shovel.” </p><p>“No, we don’t.” </p><p>“Someone will find them and bury them.” </p><p>“No doubt.” </p><p>A hiss from the backseat made Nile pull up her shoulders even more.  “We should go find a hospital.  Get them some help.” </p><p>“Uh-huh.”  </p><p>“I <i>know</i>.”  Nile banged her head against the backrest in frustration.  “Can we just go, please?  The sooner we’re rid of the hell spawn, the better.” </p><p>“Finally, she talks some sense,” Andy muttered, and started the car.  “Find us the route to the nearest print shop.  I want a hard copy of Copley’s file.” </p><p>Nile had already pulled out her phone, but that last comment made her pause.  “Hospital first.”  </p><p>Andy sighed.  It was the most world-weary, <i>why-am-I-stuck-on-toddler-duty-again?</i> sigh Nile had heard from her in a long while.  “Fine.  Hospital first.” </p><p>“Wise decision,” Nile said, cheerfully, “’cause you left your laptop in the backseat.” </p><p>“Fuck.” </p><p>“At least they won’t try to eat that.” </p><p>“Next time we split up, you’re going with Joe and Nicky,” Andy promised grimly, and floored it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Day by Day Armageddon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Munich, Germany</b>
</p><p>Nicky breathed out gently and squeezed the trigger.  Down below, another figure fell, buying more time for the group of frazzled teachers to herd their panicked flock of kids toward the waiting army trucks.  </p><p>“Staying down this time,” Joe reported from beside him, field glasses pressed to his face.  “Head and throat really do work best.  Keep aiming high.” </p><p>“Roger that,” Nicky confirmed.  </p><p>“Two degrees, right,” Joe ordered. </p><p>Nicky shifted accordingly and caught another runner in his sights.  “Locked,” he said.  </p><p>Joe watched for a few seconds to make sure the man was actually aiming to attack the group and not another fugitive running for safety.  “Hostile,” he decided. </p><p>Nicky hummed an affirmative and pulled the trigger.  The target dropped like a sack of potatoes in a spray of blood and brains.  </p><p>“How are we on ammo?” Nicky asked distractedly as he chambered another round, most of his attention still on the situation down below.  They’d been at it for a very hectic ten minutes now, after several harrowing hours of prep time.  </p><p>They hadn’t even planned on passing through Munich in the first place, not after the hassle it had been to get out of Vienna.  They’d left a trail of dead bodies on their way to the Danube canal, even though they’d moved at night and chosen their route carefully.  They didn’t feel bad about it exactly, since every single kill had most definitely been in self-defense, but the instinct to protect civilians was so ingrained in them that the experience had left them rattled.  Since then, they’d avoided contact with other people whenever possible. </p><p>This had worked just fine until they’d met Lisa and her husband Bernd, both of them frantic to get back to Munich and their daughter Emma.  Well.  They hadn’t so much “met” Lisa and Bernd as found them at the side of the Autobahn, treed by a pack of very hungry cannibals (“They’re not actually dead,” Nicky insisted, stubbornly.  “You can’t call them zombies when they’re not dead, I don’t care what Andy says.”).  When they’d seen the relative ease with which Joe and Nicky had dispatched of their attackers, the tears and the guilt-tripping had started, until the two of them had caved and agreed to help the distraught couple find their child.  </p><p>Getting into Munich hadn’t been a problem.  They’d been traveling by motorcycle, so they could wind through the crashed and abandoned cars that littered the roads, and what was left of the police and armed forces was spread too thin to close off every street.  And once Nicky and Joe were in the city and emotionally invested, well… this was what the Old Guard <i>did</i>.  Move into war zones to evacuate and protect civilians.  Retrieve specific civilians if necessary.  Wade through enemy forces like the reaper’s scythe until they’d obtained their objective and then disappear like ghosts.  </p><p>They weren’t at the disappearing stage yet.  They’d located Emma at her school, with most of her younger schoolmates and teachers.  When things had gone south, the teachers had grabbed all the non-afflicted kids they’d been able to get their hands on and stowed them in the basement lunch room.  They’d put up barricades and were still waiting for rescue when the two immortals found them.  At least they’d had enough food and even access to the cafeteria restrooms.  </p><p>“Can’t get them all out without casualties,” Nicky noted, studying the area with a critical eye.  “Too many hostiles around.  The little ones can’t run fast enough.”  </p><p>“We need transportation,” Joe agreed, mind already jumping to the heavy military trucks they’d seen on their way in.  </p><p>Nicky nodded at one of the taller buildings across the street.  “If we can get the troops to handle the actual evacuation, I can make sure they have a clear path from the roof over there.”  </p><p>“Where’s our Munich cache?  Do we have enough ammo?” </p><p>“Basement vault in the Löwengrube,” Nicky said, because Nicky had all of their weapons caches memorized and made sure to keep them maintained and accessible.  He had a schedule.  He had <i>checklists</i>, bless his heart.  “Steyr SSG 69 rifle, 300 rounds.  Andy’s Norwegian boarding axe.  A case of grenades.  Other than that, the usual assortment.” </p><p>“Sounds good,” Joe decided. </p><p>Which eventually led to the discreet commandeering of a small Bundeswehr division and Joe and Nicky barricaded on a rooftop, sniping cannibals with the uncanny precision that came with several hundred years of sharpshooting practice.   </p><p>“Five degrees to the left,” Joe intoned. </p><p>Nicky adjusted his aim and took the shot.  No need to verbally confirm this time.  The target in his sights was about to bring down one of the Bundeswehr soldiers covering the children’s retreat.  Nicky timed his shot perfectly so the bullet missed the soldier’s rising arm by an inch and slammed into the cannibal’s temple, taking most of the skull with it upon exit.  </p><p>Joe handed over a new rotary magazine and grabbed the old one to reload.  “Nice shot.” </p><p>“Thank you.”  Nicky winked at him and slotted back into position like a lion sinking down into the tall grass.  </p><p>Things were looking good down below.  Most of the children were loaded into the trucks already, teachers, soldiers, and the few parents who’d made it to the school working together to make sure nobody got left behind.  The school yard and the street were littered with bodies in their wake, most of them downed by Nicky’s clean headshots.  He hadn’t missed once.  Fast moving targets in a high-pressure situation didn’t pose a problem for a sniper used to doing his job while artillery fire was raining down on him and Andromache of Scythia was bellowing orders in a tone that bypassed free will in most soldiers’ brains.  </p><p>“How’s our exit situation?” Nicky asked, without taking his gaze off their charges.  </p><p>Joe set down the loaded magazine within easy reach and shuffled to the side to peek through the skylight they’d used to get on the roof.  “Good news is, they’re pretty stupid,” he reported.  “Still haven’t figured out that they could use the chair to reach up.  Bad news is, they’re still there and not eating each other.”  </p><p>“Fuck,” Nicky grumbled.  He spotted movement at the end of the street and tensed.  “Incoming.  Get back here.”</p><hr/><p>By the time the civilians were safely loaded into the trucks and the little convoy was ready to go, Nicky had taken down two more packs of cannibals and he was emphatically not happy about it.  The last group had climbed out of the school’s first floor windows.  They’d looked about fifteen or sixteen and they had <i>shrieked</i> as they sprinted toward the younger children.  At first, Nicky had thought they had accidentally been left behind, but Joe had let out a stream of curses immediately.  </p><p>“Fuck, fuck, fuck, they’re going for the kids.  Shoot them, Nico!” </p><p>If Nicky had still been unsure at that point, it never showed.  Joe had told him to pull the trigger and he did, dropping targets one after the other until the last one fell almost within touching distance of the Bundeswehr soldiers covering the retreat.  Only then had he breathed out slowly and eased back. “Did I get them all?” </p><p>“Yes,” Joe had confirmed with a sigh.  “That was close.”  </p><p>Nicky had nodded and that had been that.  They didn’t talk about it until much later, when Nicky admitted he hadn’t been entirely sure even when he’d shot the first teenager.  He’d seen it then, though, in the way they moved, the predatory tilts of their heads.  Not running toward safety but chasing after prey; a difference you learned to tell after so many years alive.  </p><p>Lisa and Bernd waved at them before the soldiers pulled down the tarp and then the trucks were off, heading out of the city.  This had been the part of the plan most ardently discussed as they’d laid it out – that Joe and Nicky would be left behind to fend for themselves.  </p><p>“We can wait for you,” the officer in charge had insisted.  “It won’t take you that long to get back down from the roof.” </p><p>“We don’t know that,” Joe had argued.  “Our exit might get cut off.  We might have to find a different way down.  We’ll be fine.” </p><p>“We don’t leave people behind.” </p><p>“You do when you have a bunch of children to protect,” Nicky had said sharply and that had ended the argument pretty effectively.  </p><p>“Let’s hope they make it out,” Joe said as he watched the trucks rumble down the street.  </p><p>“At least now they have a chance,” Nicky offered, already packing up his rifle so he could sling it over his shoulder.  </p><p>“Yeah.”  Joe stared forlornly at the skylight.  “We could just jump down and kill them.  They’re tiny.” </p><p>Nicky raised an eyebrow at him.  </p><p>“Or we could jump over to the next building and spare ourselves the nightmares,” Joe amended.  </p><p>“Good choice.”</p><hr/><p>“Where to now?” Joe asked later, when they’d made it out of the city and made camp for the night.  It was a very familiar feeling, to be out in the dark alone, no safety net, no modern amenities.  Nights like these made time both stretch and compress and left him comfortable but slightly disoriented.  It could’ve been any time.  Almost any place.  If it hadn’t been for the style of their clothes, this could’ve been any night a hundred, four hundred, eight hundred years back.  Out here, the world still smelled the same.  And Nicolo still looked the same, constant as the rustle of wind in the trees and the scent of earth and woodsmoke.  </p><p>The only thing disturbing the familiarity was the nagging itch on Joe’s wrist.  He frowned down at it, two raised, still slightly red crescents that had never been there before.  </p><p>Fuck the big, burly men.  Booker was right, it was the little old ladies who were the most dangerous.  Just his luck that the old bat had still had all her teeth.  At least until Nicky had kicked her in the face so hard her skull had cracked.  Of them all – with the possible exception of Nile, who was too young yet to have fully developed into who she was going to be – Nicky was probably the most kind-hearted, but he had his limits.  Someone hurting Joe was one of them.  </p><p>Like with Nicky, the bite had scarred, but not disappeared.  Nicky kept looking at it and clenching his jaws, but Joe didn’t worry.  Nicky’s scar was almost gone now.  Joe didn’t doubt it would work the same way for him… and if there were going to be consequences, at least they’d face them together.  The thought of Nicky maybe, possibly leaving him behind had haunted Joe.  Now that he was facing the same fate, whatever it might be, he was content. </p><p>Nicky put a little more wood on their small cooking fire and stabbed a few holes in a big can of a Greek rice dish with gyros and peppers, so it wouldn’t explode when heated.  Joe’s belly rumbled hungrily.  It made Nicky glance up at him with a sweet little smile.  </p><p>“Let me warm it up first, greedy guts,” he scolded gently.  </p><p>“So civilized,” Joe teased, as though he didn’t appreciate the hell out of this century of luxury that had brought them so many delights.  He hoped this wasn’t the end of this new world.  He wasn’t looking forward to going back to living rough all the time, much as he appreciated these nostalgic moments.  </p><p>“At least one of us has to be,” Nicky said primly, and propped the can into the edge of the fire where they’d be able to fish it out without trouble.  He watched it for a moment, pensively, then cleared his throat and sat back on his haunches.  “I want to go to Paris before we head for Dolwyddelan.” </p><p>No need to ask why, but Joe still had to chew on it for a minute or two before he could answer without sounding resentful.  “We don’t even know Booker’s still there.  He never replied to your texts.”  </p><p>Nicky gave him a look. </p><p>Joe rolled his eyes.  “All right, yeah.  He might be blackout drunk.  Or he might’ve dropped his phone into the shitter again.  But you said he’s been doing better.  So how likely is that?” </p><p>“Not very,” Nicky admitted.  Not impossible either, of course.  Fact was that Booker had spent most of his time in Paris these past few years.  It was a place to start looking, in any case.  If you wanted to go looking.  </p><p>Nicky braced his elbows on his knees and focused on the can again.  The firelight painted his skin in warm colors.  It made his eyelashes look stupidly long and dark, and eased the stern lines of his face.  Nicolo di Genova had been a striking man when Joe had met him all those centuries before, a fascinating creature even when they’d still been at the beginning of their journey, but Joe loved this version of him even more.  Time had sanded down both their edges and allowed them to grow into the men they were now.  Joe liked who’d they become and he loved that his adoration for King Hawknose over there just kept evolving.  </p><p>“So, Paris then,” he sighed, because there was no use fighting it.  Booker was still family, after all.  They may need time apart to deal with his betrayal, the reason for it, and the resulting knot of issues, but even from the skewed perspective that came with lifespans as long as theirs, Joe had to admit these were special circumstances.  He wasn’t ready to take Booker back yet, not for good, even though the man had clearly decided to work on his problems (and a lot sooner than Joe had expected, to be honest), but given the givens, a personal meeting might be in order.  At least until they knew in which direction the world would tilt.  “That’s not gonna be easy,” he felt obliged to say anyway, because it wouldn’t do to give in too quickly.  </p><p>Nicky snorted, an endearingly unattractive sound.  “What’s ever easy?” </p><p>“True,” Joe admitted grudgingly.  “But usually people are merely trying to kill us, not eat us.  Can we come back if we get devoured?” </p><p>“You grew back that leg the bear ate that time in Canada,” Nicky offered.  “Or was that in Northern Italy?” </p><p>“I don’t know, I only remember the bear.”  It had been a big bear and clearly very hungry, because she hadn’t even waited for Joe to die before she’d ripped off and chewed down on his leg.  If Nicky hadn’t gone berserker on her, they’d have a better idea about reviving from being eaten.  “I’d rather not find out though.” </p><p>“Yeah, me neither.”  Nicky shifted a bit, unhappily.  “I hope Andy’s all right.” </p><p>And there was the real issue.  Joe immediately plopped down next to his everything and leaned in, offering shelter.  Nicky went from crouching by the fire like a worried gargoyle to sitting down and snuggling up against him gratifyingly fast.  </p><p>“Andy’s going to be fine,” Joe murmured.  “She’s still <i>Andy</i>.” </p><p>“I know,” Nicky grumbled, loathe to admit how truly scared he was for their fearless and terrifyingly fragile leader.  </p><p>“Also, she’s with Nile.  Leave no man behind and all that.”</p><p>“I know.” </p><p>Joe reached over and gently loosened Nicky’s death grip on his newly scarred wrist enough to intertwine their fingers.  “If <i>anyone</i> can make it through a zombie apocalypse–”</p><p>“I <i>know</i>,” Nicky groaned, and finally folded over until he was half in Joe’s lap.  Not the most comfortable position ever, but Nicky had always been a lot more flexible than he looked.  He grumbled something into Joe’s thigh and the hot breath seeping into the fabric of his pants made Joe’s dick twitch hopefully. </p><p>“You good down there?” Joe asked, amused. </p><p>Another grumble, bitchy and a little plaintive, this time a few inches closer to Joe’s crotch. </p><p>Joe cleared his throat.  “We done talking?” </p><p>Affirmative rumble, and finally a hot mouth right where he needed it.  Joe grinned helplessly and grabbed on to a broad shoulder.  Comfort sex by the fireside, stars above, warm earth below, and nobody had tried to kill them in hours.  </p><p>Things could’ve been worse.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Somewhere East of Warsaw, Poland</b>
</p><p>“I’m going to need so much more therapy,” Booker said sadly, overlooking the carnage in the train car before him.  He shouldn’t complain, he supposed, seeing as he was one of the people responsible for it.  He reached up to rub his sore arm.  It had been a while since he’d gotten a workout like this.  </p><p>“You can take some of my sessions,” Quynh offered happily.  “I just worked through a shit-ton of my anger issues.” </p><p>“We’re probably going to hell for this.”  </p><p>Quynh snorted, unimpressed.  “Don’t project your religious beliefs on me.  Anyway, we saved a bunch of people <i>and</i> kept a train full of crazies from driving right into a major city.  At worst, you’re looking at purgatory… and even that only if it turns out there’s a cure.  <i>And</i> if you ever manage to die.”</p><p>“I hate you.”  </p><p>“No, you don’t.”  Quynh patted his arm consolingly.  Booker’s jacket squelched wetly.  Quynh cleared her throat and took her hand off the bloody fabric to wipe it discreetly on one of the few train seats that wasn’t covered in gore.  “Maybe we should check on the survivors.” </p><p>Booker sighed.  “I’m never riding a train again ever in my life.” </p><p>Quynh rolled her eyes.  “Drama llama.”  She looked around once more.  “You know, this could’ve been avoided if we had kicked that fucking catering cart off the train right back in Białystok.  I told you it was the soda.” </p><p>“That was too many insane people for so little soda,” Booker objected.  “Also, I saw the conductor go mad after he got bitten.  It’s the bites.”  </p><p>“Maybe it’s both,” Quynh proposed.  “The first biter had to be triggered <i>somehow</i>.” </p><p>Booker deflated again.  God, he was tired.  It had seemed like such a good idea at the time to ditch the car and take the train.  Less hassle.  Ha!  He wanted to curl around his bloody fire axe and sleep for a decade.  But first he wanted a drink.  Or ten.  Hadn’t there been a bar at the end of the train?  He vaguely remembered stabbing a broken bottle through someone’s throat after dying in a puddle of vodka and glass shards.  His skin had shed the splinters for half the ensuing fight.  When they’d moved on, the bar had looked relatively intact though.  There might be something alcoholic left.  Anything, really.  He wasn’t picky.  </p><p>He started forward only to come to an abrupt stop when Quynh grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked.  “No booze.”  <i>How the hell–?</i>  “Last time you looked like this, you ended up puking on my head.  And then you cried.”  Quynh pulled him around and gave him a hefty push in the other direction.  “We’re not doing that again.”  </p><p>“We just re-enacted fucking <i>Train to Busan</i>,” Booker barked, trying to dig in his heels and slipping on something slimy.  He didn’t glance down.  He truly, honestly did not want to know.  “Only <i>we won</i>, because we’re more vicious than half a train full of <i>crazed cannibals</i>.  If there ever was a reason to drink, this is it!” </p><p>“More skilled, not more vicious,” Quynh corrected, still pushing him as if he were a recalcitrant mule.  “Oh, wait, speaking of vicious.”  She nudged him past the exit and into the narrow space between the train’s restrooms.  The doors opened inward, but someone – probably Quynh, judging by her self-satisfied look – had blocked one with the help of the catering cart and a number of strategically arranged corpses.  It was more than a little macabre, but undeniably effective.  </p><p>“What?” Booker asked, warily.  He hated it when Quynh was this chipper, because she tended to get progressively happier the more layers of civilization she shed.  For all that she had adapted to modern times with lightning speed, at her core she remained the half-feral barbarian Andromache had picked up in Mongolia so long ago.  Booker, on the other hand, was a big fan of civilization, thank you very much.  </p><p>His voice triggered an immediate volley of bumps and thuds behind the door as well as the guttural snarling and panting he’d learned to associate with the afflicted.  He took an involuntary step back and shot Quynh an incredulous look.  He couldn’t even think of anything to say, he just gestured wildly at the door.  </p><p>“Yes!” Quynh confirmed cheerfully, a not-quite-sane gleam in her eyes.  Killing her way through a train might’ve done wonders for her anger issues, but it had definitely not helped with her general level of mental stability.  “I caught one for you.”</p><p>Was this Quynh’s version of a cat bringing home a live snake?  If so, he did not want it.  Booker flailed helplessly again, trying to communicate the sheer amount of “nope” he felt and failing.  In the end, he settled for a strangled, “<i>Why?</i>” </p><p>“I want to show you something.” </p><p>“If this is about my axe swinging technique again…” </p><p>Quynh huffed.  “It’s not.”  </p><p>“Good,” Booker muttered, slightly mollified.  He didn’t care how they’d done it in 590 BC or whenever.  He was plenty efficient with melee weapons.  Just because he didn’t choose to walk through history with a double-bladed axe strapped across his back didn’t mean he didn’t know how to cleave skulls if necessary.  It wasn’t that freaking hard, all right? </p><p>“Though you do swing too wide still,” Quynh added, because she was an asshole who always had to have the last word.  “But I noticed something when we were fighting and I want to get your take on it, because I’m not sure what to make of it.” </p><p>Well, that was ominous.  Booker studied the shuddering door for a moment.  He still wanted that drink, but now he was intrigued enough to push the desire aside.  “How do you want to do this?” </p><p>Quynh smiled at him, pleased.  “I pull out this body,” she pointed at the conductor’s corpse, which was wedged awkwardly between the cart and the opposite wall.  “That’ll make everything collapse.  Cannibal squeezes out through the door, you grab it, hold it down, and I’ll demonstrate.” </p><p>Made sense, since Booker was considerably heavier than Quynh.  “Okay,” he said, and braced himself.  </p><p>Quynh wasn’t the type to count to three.  She grabbed a uniform-clad leg, lifted, twisted, and pulled.  As she’d predicted, the removal of what had apparently been the lynchpin body made the whole heap start to slide.  The cart tilted and rolled back.  The door moved, first only a bit, then quickly, aided by an impatient hand from the inside.  </p><p>The wild-eyed figure that emerged was a teenaged boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, with greasy hair, a tacky skull earring, and way too many scars on his face.  He went for Quynh first, which was a mistake, obviously.  She moved out of his way, tripped him up, and then kicked him on his way down, all of it with a dancer’s grace and a psycho’s verve.  All Booker had to do was twist the boy’s arms behind his back and sit on him.  At least these cannibalistic crazies weren’t any stronger than regular people.  They simply gave much less of a damn about hurting themselves in their effort to munch on their fellow man.  </p><p>“Now what?” Booker asked.  </p><p>“You see his face?”  Quynh grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the writhing boy’s head back so his face was in the light.  </p><p>Booker frowned at the scars, confused.  “Yeah, so?” </p><p>“Those are from me,” Quynh said.  “I cut him with a broken bottle.” </p><p>“Okay?” Booker offered, still not getting it.  He didn’t doubt Quynh’s claim.  He’d seen people with cut-up faces before and the jagged pattern fit the kind of damage a broken bottle would do.  </p><p>“I cut him maybe half an hour ago,” Quynh elaborated.  </p><p>In Booker’s defense, he was tired and had spent the past two-hundred plus years mostly in the company of immortals.  Which was why it took him a little longer.  “So?” </p><p>“You’re worse than Andromache,” Quynh muttered.  She poked the crazy in the face until he nearly swallowed his own tongue in his struggle to bite her.  “Scar tissue,” she said, and poked him again just because.  “Shouldn’t be there.  This should all be open and dripping.  Why’s he healing so fast?” </p><p>Booker blinked.  She had a point there.  </p><p>“Look.”  </p><p>Quynh crouched next to the boy’s head, pulled a small knife seemingly out of nowhere, and carved a line into the scrawny neck.  He bellowed and twisted beneath Booker, but Booker held him down without much effort, gaze focused on the long cut.  Quynh was right.  It was healing.  It wasn’t the fast, smooth transition from open wound to nothing he was used to from his own skin.  It looked painful and left a thick scar and the kid got notably more stressed out and desperate as it went, but the process itself… that looked <i>very</i> familiar.  </p><p>“Do it again,” he demanded, hoarsely.  </p><p>Never one to shy away from bloodshed, Quynh cut another line.  The healing looked the same.  The boy’s thrashing got worse.  He tried to bite her, he tried to bite the carpet, he howled gutturally, eyes bulging.  Booker hardly noticed anything except for the imperfect healing.  </p><p>“Can you show me yours?” </p><p>Wordlessly, Quynh flipped the knife, wiped it casually on the boy’s shirt, and sliced through the skin on her own forearm.  She held out the arm so they could both watch the wound close then met Booker’s gaze with a raised eyebrow.  “See what I mean?” </p><p>“Shit,” was all Booker could think to say, but his thoughts were racing.  He remembered everything about Merrick and his lab and his cronies.  His decision to end it all had heightened his awareness to a ridiculous degree, especially considering the haze of alcohol he’d spent his life in after his last child’s death.  He’d believed then – had <i>hoped</i> then – that he had found a way out and it had made him a lot more attentive than usual.  </p><p>He remembered the samples Merrick’s lead scientist had taken. (He remembered how she had taken them.)  He remembered Nile punching her out.  He didn’t remember any of them ending her.  They’d blown up the lab, after, but that had been hours later, at night, when the building had been empty.  She must have taken the samples and she’d either sold them to someone who’d made an attempt to recreate what made the Old Guard immortal or she’d done it herself.  Didn’t matter in the end.  Something had gone very, very wrong somewhere.  </p><p>And it was all Booker’s fault.</p><hr/><p>“Breathe.” </p><p>Booker struggled to obey, but there wasn’t enough air in the world to calm him down.  “This is on me.” </p><p>“Just breathe.” </p><p>“This is all on me.”  </p><p>Distantly, he was aware of Quynh rolling her eyes and shooing the milling passengers further away.  Booker was sitting in the dewy grass next to the train, panting, staring at nothing, because all he could see was the lab, and all he could hear was Joe’s angry voice damning him, and all he could smell was the blood he’d spilled, directly and apparently indirectly.  Rivers of it.  Oceans.  </p><p>He didn’t know what exactly had happened to the crazy boy with the scars, but he knew Quynh, so he knew the boy wasn’t a threat anymore.  He had no idea how he’d gotten to where he was right now either and he didn’t care, because he might have inadvertently not only destroyed their little family, he might’ve caused the end of the world.  Who the fuck had come up with the brilliant idea to make a loser like him immortal?  </p><p>“If you try to eat your gun again, I’m twisting off your balls,” Quynh told him sternly from somewhere to the right.  She sounded torn between worry and exasperation.  Five hundred years of drowning, and she’d never seriously wanted to take her own life.  She’d admitted that she’d wanted it to end, yes, she would’ve welcomed the cessation of pain, but once she’d been out of there?  Absolutely no suicidal ideation.  Booker didn’t know how the fuck she did it. </p><p>Also… he shook himself and tried to focus his gaze on her, which was remarkably hard to do.  “You’d <i>twist</i> them off?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Quynh confirmed, completely unapologetic.  “Like fruits from a tree.  That’ll take your mind off things.” </p><p>The thought alone was very helpful in snapping him out of his panic attack.  Granted, it almost tipped him over into an entirely different panic attack, but at least some of the weird, weightless numbness faded into a sort of unhappy queasiness.  </p><p>“I think I triggered the zombie apocalypse,” he confessed, because therapy had taught him to try and articulate the problem.  </p><p>Quynh rubbed her forehead, absentmindedly peeling off the crusty, drying blood there.  “Reformulate that.” </p><p>Booker frowned and forced himself to concentrate.  This, too was something they’d learned in therapy.  He hated it, because it always made him feel like a slow student straining to figure out the right answer.  <i>Was</i> he solely responsible?  It felt like it, but maybe…  “I played a key part in triggering the zombie apocalypse?” he tried. </p><p>Flakes of rusty red rained down from Quynh’s beleaguered brow.  “Who approached whom again?” </p><p>“Copley approached me,” Booker recited obediently.  </p><p>“Which means?” </p><p>“I played a– a <i>part</i> in triggering the zombie apocalypse?” </p><p>“Who do you think mixed up the magic potion that caused all this?”  It sounded ridiculous couched in those terms, but as a simple translation of what had likely happened, it made sense.  </p><p>Booker squirmed a little.  “Merrick’s lead scientist.  Must’ve been her.  She was the only one left who had access to the samples.  I should’ve killed her.” </p><p>Quynh cleared her throat.  </p><p>“<i>We</i> should’ve killed her,” Booker amended, reluctantly.  “Or destroyed the samples immediately.” </p><p>Quynh sighed.  “I’ll take it.”  </p><p>“We gotta tell Andy.”  He really, really didn’t want to, because Andy probably wouldn’t bother with the “we all fucked up” bullshit and rip him a new one, but she needed to know that this might get even worse.  Also, he figured he deserved a good dressing-down, even if Quynh was too biased to say so.  </p><p>“Yes, we do.”  His phone came flying at him.  Booker caught it on instinct.  Quynh smirked at his surprise.  “I found our bags while you were hyperventilating.  See if you can reach her, I’ll round up the civilians.” </p><p>“Don’t hit anyone.” </p><p>“Bitch, please.  I’m <i>much</i> saner than you.” </p><p>“That’s not saying much,” Booker muttered, already checking his phone for damages.  The screen protector was scratched and smeared with blood, but it wiped right off and the phone itself was fine.  He turned it on and waited with bated breath.  They hadn’t been able to get service anywhere in Russia, but now they were back in the EU, they might have a chance.  He saw a cell tower from where he was still sitting in the damp grass, so at least reception should be fine. </p><p>The home screen lit up.  Power was at about eighty percent aaaand… bingo.  Three bars.  Service.  He was about to tap on the call button when his phone startled him with a frantic series of beeps.  New message.  Beep.  New message.  Beep.  New voicemail.  Beep.  New voicemail.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  New message, new message, new message.  </p><p>Booker’s heart ached when he saw the names attached to all the calls and messages.  Nicky.  Nile.  Andy.  There was even one from Joe.  Masochist that he was, Booker clicked on that one first.  </p><p>
  <i>Check in with us, asshole.  Nico’s fretting.</i>
</p><p>Sounded about right. </p><p>Booker smiled and called Andy. </p><p> </p><p><b>Congress, Arizona</b> </p><p>They had almost reached the community hospital clinic in Congress when Andy’s phone started to ring.  She reached down to grab it and that was the moment when the girl popped through the space between the two front seats like a bad jump scare and buried her teeth in Andy’s arm.  She’d probably intended to lock onto her neck, but Andy’s sudden motion threw off her aim.  </p><p>A normal person would’ve swerved and crashed the car, but Andy had been old when Rome was founded.  She had endured pain no mortal would have survived and had remained sane through it all.  A crazed elementary schooler trying to gnaw through her biceps wasn’t even enough to make her scream.  </p><p>So, while the girl tore and ripped through her skin and Nile cursed a blue streak while trying to keep the boy from latching onto her face, Andy clenched her jaw, pulled the car over, and turned off the engine.  Then she reached up with one hand, grabbed the girl by the hair to keep her in place, opened the car door, and moved them both outside, where she dislodged the growling kid with brute force and slammed her to the ground face-first.  She kept her there with a boot on the back and bent down to look into the car.  </p><p>Nile was about to lose a finger again, but she’d managed to pull the kid to the front and was trying to get a good grip on him.  So far, she was failing, because she was still careful not to hurt him.  </p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” Andy huffed.  </p><p>She reached into the car, grabbed the boy by a leg, and pulled him out heedless of his squirming and squealing.  He jackknifed up as soon as he was out, right into her fist.  Andy let him drop and glared down at his crumpled little form.  Fucking zombies.  </p><p>The phone stopped ringing.  </p><p>The girl was gnawing at the boot not currently pinning her to the ground like a bug, but the thick leather barely even dented.  Nile scrambled out of the passenger seat and came running around the car to check on Andy and the children.  Andy glared at her from under her sunglasses, the <i>I-fucking-told-you-so</i> tingling on her tongue.  Her blood was dripping into the sand and the smell was driving the zombie girl even more insane.  </p><p>“Give me your belt.”  </p><p>Nile didn’t even try to argue.  She unthreaded her leather belt and handed it over.  Andy used it to secure the girl with a few quick, practiced movements.  She left her flopping around while she opened the back door of the car, grabbed the zip ties from her laptop bag, and returned to tie up the boy as well.  She gagged both kids with Nile’s dirty socks, heaved them up and tossed them into the trunk with more force than probably necessary.  </p><p>When she turned back around, Nile was holding up the hefty first aid kit she insisted on bringing everywhere.  Andy had come to hate the thing.  It was a constant reminder of her recent mortality.  In a way, Lykon had had it easier.  He’d discovered the loss of his immortality while already at death’s door.  No time to acclimate to the idea.  No room for soul-searching or creeping worries.  Only a chance to realize that “oh, damn, this time it’s gonna stick” and off he’d gone.  Andy, on the other hand, had spent the past few years adapting and she was the first to admit she hadn’t accepted her newfound breakability gracefully.  She had no <i>patience</i> for this kind of shit.  It was a stupid damn kid’s bite, goddamn it.  Heal up, move on.  </p><p>Instead, she grudgingly allowed Nile to pour disinfectant over the ragged wound and eyed the hole in her body with disdain.  The zombie girl had been surprisingly effective for her size.  A good chunk of flesh was missing and the damage went deep, almost to the bone.  It was starting to hurt like a son of a bitch, too.  Thankfully, Nile had stopped asking for Andy’s opinions when it came to wound care.  She injected a local anesthetic, sat Andy down on the hood of their car, applied more disinfectant, and then stitched her up without a fuss. </p><p>Andy stared out into the desert while Nile worked on her, reconsidering her strategy.  One of the last things Copley had figured out had been that whatever was causing the madness had mutated once it kicked in and was now likely transmissible via bodily fluids.  Such as saliva, the bodily fluid Andy’s wound had been drenched in, because the little sicko had drooled like a Komodo dragon.  </p><p>They weren’t entirely sure which rules applied to Andy in her current state.  She could be injured.  She suffered from aching muscles and soreness when she overexerted herself.  Her joints did not appreciate cold mornings or wet weather.  Then again, she hadn’t been sick once since she’d discovered her mortality, not even a sniffle, which was unusual, apparently.  So chances were, she’d be affected, but there was no telling how badly.  </p><p>The only thing she was reasonably sure of was that it was probably a bad idea to put her at the controls of a plane.  Nicky, Joe, and Nile had all been attacked, which meant they fit the zombies’ flavor profile.  If Andy went mad, she would come at Nile with all she had, so she couldn’t travel in the cockpit.  Nile was a fast learner, but even she couldn’t be taught how to pilot a jet in what little time they had.  So.  No planes.  This meant going to Wales was no longer an option, which sucked, because they had one of their biggest caches there and it would’ve been a nice spot to lay low for a while and evaluate their options. </p><p>It was too early to tell how this thing was going to develop.  In the past, when the population had been much smaller and travel a lot slower, Andy supposed it would’ve burned itself out sooner or later like all the other major plagues, or become a regional or seasonal thing, depending on what it really was.  More people meant more kindling, global travel meant a faster spread, but modern times had also brought with them a much greater understanding of cause and effect.  Once the scientific community had had a chance to rally, Andy gave them pretty good odds for developing either a cure or some kind of preventative measure.  </p><p>It might be a matter of keeping her secure rather than killing her outright, after all.  The question was if–</p><p>“I know you’re mad,” Nile said suddenly, interrupting Andy’s thoughts.  </p><p>Startled, Andy turned to look at her.  Nile had finished bandaging Andy’s arm and was closing the first aid kit.  She put it down carefully on the hood and stood there, looking lost and uncomfortable, her gaze fixed on the scuffed case.  </p><p>“You have every right to be.  I made a mistake.”  Scratch the “uncomfortable”, Nile looked absolutely <i>miserable</i>.  </p><p>Andy attempted to reach out to her, was painfully reminded of the hole in her arm, switched arms, and patted her on the shoulder awkwardly.  Newbies.  Always so emotional.  “I’m not mad,” she told Nile.  Seeing her doubtful look, she added, “Not at you.”  She considered the situation.  “Not much at you.  You should’ve secured them better, but you were working with only one good hand.  I should’ve checked the bindings and I didn’t.  That’s on me.” </p><p>“I wanted to bring them with us,” Nile reminded her, quietly.  </p><p>“Well, it was bring them or kill them, and only the future will tell which was the kinder option.”  Andy shrugged.  “We do the best we can with the information we have.  It’s useless to play the <i>what if</i> game.  You make your choices and then you deal with the outcome.” </p><p>“She <i>bit</i> you!” Nile cried out, and there they were, the guilt and the anger.  </p><p>“Like a rabid dog,” Andy agreed, reluctantly amused now.  Of all the ways to go.  Given her lifestyle, she’d expected to die in battle.  Death by elementary schooler hadn’t been so much as a blip on her radar.  At least the waiting was over.  The not knowing how and when she was going to end had been the worst thing about being mortal. </p><p>“How can you be so calm about this?”  Andy opened her mouth.  Nile lifted her hand.  “If you start with the <i>if it’s my time, it’s my time</i> shit again, I’m gonna scream.”  Andy closed her mouth again and smirked.  Nile took a step back and started to pace.  “It may not affect you.  You’ve never been sick once.  Maybe you won’t even get it.”  </p><p>“Maybe.”  Andy watched her pace and smiled at the sudden rush of affection that washed over her.  Nile was a good one.  Impulsive and not always thinking ahead, but that would come with age and experience.  Too soft-hearted sometimes, but that, too, would mature into a more pragmatic type of kindness.  Nile had a smart head on her shoulders and a firm sense of right and wrong, and those were excellent qualities to have.  She was brave, she was loyal, and she was already rolling with the punches like a pro.  Whoever had chosen her had chosen well.  </p><p>Finally, Nile stopped and huffed out a breath.  “All right,” she sighed.  “What do we do now?” </p><p>“Now we drop off those little biters at the clinic,” Andy said promptly.  “Then we find a print shop and print Copley’s files.  If it all goes to shit, you’ll have the hard copies.”  She pulled a face.  “And then we call Nicky and Joe.” </p><p>Nile winced.  “They won’t be happy.”  </p><p>“No,” Andy agreed.  “But we need a new plan.”  And they better hurry, because Andy was getting hungry.  </p><p>In her pocket, the phone rang again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. You Might Be a Zombie and Other Bad News</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Parisian Suburbs, France</b>
</p><p>Nicky’s phone jingled at the worst possible moment, which was par for the course.  It was why The Silencing of the Phones had become part of their pre-sex rituals.  Under the circumstances though, cutting off communications, spotty as they were, was not an option and it was too easy to miss the vibrations of a partially silenced phone in a high-stress situation.  Which was why Joe stepped out of the gas station restroom and faced the pack of prowling hostiles they’d been hiding from while Nicky picked up the call that had betrayed their position.  </p><p>“Booker,” he said, surprised, and Joe huffed out a laugh at how fitting that was before he slipped out into the open.  He barely had time to wink at Nicky before the door fell shut, but after all these years, he had the timing down pat. </p><p>It was difficult not to speculate about the phone call while Joe fought.  While wielding a sword against half a dozen unarmed crazy people might not be the most challenging battle he’d ever faced, he’d learned the hard way not to get cocky.  On the one hand, it was a relief to know the moody fucker was still alive and kicking, and having him on the line would make it considerably easier to find him in a city as big as Paris.  On the other hand, Booker was usually a texter, not a caller, so a sudden phone call from him was unlikely to bring good news.  </p><p>One of the women lunged at Joe and he ducked and threw her over his shoulder, conveniently tripping up another attacker headed for him from the other side.  What freaked him out the most about this new type of hostile was the desperation in those distorted faces.  They’d been forced to kill desperate people before, because desperate people were pushed to extremes so easily and sometimes you had to put them down in self-defense or in the defense of others.  This, though, this went beyond anything Joe had ever seen.  They were salivating, groaning, frenzied.  Their only goal seemed to be to devour every living thing they came across, though, when given a choice, they seemed to prefer to attack people who hadn’t been affected.  </p><p>Whatever had caused this – the current theory blasting from all channels was that it had originated with a certain type of soda and then mutated into a direct contact type of transmission – it had forced them way beyond all reason and so far into blind instinct there was barely anything human left.  Maybe Andy had a point about her zombie theory. </p><p>They were so hungry and so <i>proactive</i> about it, and that only added to how bizarre this whole thing really was.  Joe had witnessed plenty of hunger and starvation before in his long life.  All of them, except Booker and Nile, had starved to death more than once.  It was usually a long process and by the time people reached the phase in which they looked as gaunt as these hostiles were starting to look, they tended to be apathetic, sickly, and pretty listless.  They didn’t run around actively hunting for food anymore, they couldn’t spare the energy.  </p><p>He spun around to avoid teeth coming right for his jugular (and who led with their <i>teeth</i> in a fight, goddamn it?!), danced to the side, and lopped off the man’s head.  For a weird few seconds, the body kept moving, kept coming at him, and he had to backtrack fast to avoid the grasping hands, but finally it stumbled and fell.  </p><p>Joe thrust his sword into another hostile’s chest.  He saw movement from the corner of his eye and turned, blade first, slicing deeply across the belly of one of the two remaining attackers.  Hot guts spilled from the wound.  The second hostile paused in her approach, eyes dilating.  </p><p>“Oh no,” Joe muttered in horror, and watched with a kind of morbid fascination as she brought down the wounded man and dove in head-first, gorging herself on fresh, hot entrails.  “This is just <i>wrong</i>.” </p><p>He moved in quickly, driven by disgust and pity, and cleaved the skull of the fallen man in two before he stabbed his blade into the woman’s heart.  She was still chewing as she crumpled and the squelching, greedy sounds didn’t stop for almost a minute.  </p><p>Joe made sure they were dead, scanned the area for more hostiles, and only when he was reasonably sure nobody else would be coming for him did he hurry to the back of the building and was violently sick into the trashcan there.  Nicky had been unusually hungry after being bitten in Vienna and Joe had been munching almost non-stop since Munich, but theirs was still a hunger that could be alleviated by normal food.  The idea that it might grow into something like this, something that made you lose all control, scared Joe half to death. </p><p>He hung over the can for about ten or fifteen years, in his estimation, trembling and miserable, until Nicky cleared his throat next to him.  Then he spat out and straightened up, still queasy, and gratefully took the wad of paper Nicky offered.  He wiped his mouth and beard, checked with Nicky, wiped again, and tossed the paper.  Nicky pressed a cool bottle of a violently blue sports drink into his hand and he sipped carefully until he was sure his belly would take it.  </p><p>“What happened?” Nicky asked, worried.  </p><p>Joe pointed without looking. </p><p>“What the– oh.  Okay.  Yeah, that’ll do it.”  </p><p>A strong hand took hold of Joe’s shoulder and gently steered him to the side of the gas station.  Nicky had already picked the lock of the service entrance, probably to get the sports drink for his poor, barfing beloved, and closed it firmly behind them before he led Joe to a small employee’s lounge.  It wasn’t ideal, because it was narrow and stuffed full of mismatching furniture, but there was a skylight that provided illumination as well as an emergency exit and a fridge they could use to barricade the door if necessary. </p><p>Nicky pushed Joe down on the shabby second-hand couch that took up the entire back wall and crouched before him, looking up at him with eyes full of concern.  “Are you all right?” </p><p>Joe opened his mouth to answer, burped a little, and grimaced at the mingled taste of tart sports drink and vomit.  </p><p>The look on Nicky’s face mirrored his feelings, with an added level of sympathy that soothed Joe’s ruffled dignity.  “Want something to gargle?” </p><p>Joe nodded.  “Yes, please, that was vile.  I hate barfing.  I hate it so much.” </p><p>“I know,” Nicky sighed.  He went over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of lemonade for Joe and a bottle of water for himself.  Then he reached in again to retrieve a couple of pre-packed sandwiches.  “Fridge’s still cool,” he explained.  “They’re probably okay.” </p><p>“Fifteen years since I last puked,” Joe muttered morosely.  “And then this.”  He hesitated, but God help him, he was hungry again.  “Gimme.” </p><p>Nicky handed him his drink and both sandwiches and pulled up a chair so he faced Joe while he gargled with lemonade and then unwrapped and sniffed the sandwiches.  His nose was fine with them, so he shrugged and bit into the first one, thinking unkind things about mayonnaise and people that filled sandwiches only in the middle and left the edges dry and unappetizing.  </p><p>“Booker’s in Poland,” Nicky said, sheepishly.  </p><p>Figured.  At least they wouldn’t have to fight their way to one of Booker’s hidey-holes, which was a good thing, because he had three in Paris proper and one in Corbeil-Essonnes, all of which were situated in population-heavy areas in a city currently under martial law.  </p><p>“Hm,” Joe grunted thus, not particularly bothered by the news.  They could make their way back to their illegally acquired helicopter, no problem.  Provided Booker didn’t need them to pick him up from Poland, they even had enough fuel to get to their secondary target location.  He took another bite of ham and mayo, this time with added watery tomato, and gestured at Nicky to go on.  </p><p>“Bad news first or worse news first?” Nicky asked. </p><p>Joe chewed morosely to convey that it didn’t really matter and Nicky should just hit him with whatever, because everything was shit anyway, including this sandwich.    </p><p>“Book says they heal really fast,” Nicky said, reading him perfectly.  “Almost as fast as we do, but not as effectively.  He thinks they go mad because their bodies aren’t built to deal with that and overcompensate.” </p><p>In Munich, Nicky had tried to keep them down by kneecapping them at first, but they’d gotten up again.  They hadn’t really stayed down until he switched to head shots.  The two of them had also been forced to cut their way through with lethal blows when caught in close-quarters situations, but Joe had chalked that up to the insane amount of adrenaline that seemed to keep these people going.  </p><p>“Explains a lot,” he admitted, and opened the second sandwich pack.  Egg salad.  Great.  There better be no salmonella in this or he’d be right back at the trashcan.  He hesitated, but he was still hungry and his stomach was having a great time with the ham sandwich, so he kept going.  </p><p>Nicky nodded tersely.  So there was more to come.  Awesome.  “He thinks this is a corrupted version of our immortality.  He thinks the doctor who got away at the lab took the samples and caused all this.” </p><p>Joe almost choked on a lump of egg salad.  “What?” </p><p>“Also, he talked to Nile.  Andy’s been bit.” </p><p>“<i>What</i>?”  </p><p>“New rendezvous at Fort Dysentery, ASAP.”  </p><p>Joe put down the rest of his sandwich.  He wasn’t hungry anymore.  “Anything else?” </p><p>“Probably.  Reception was pretty bad.  We got cut off.  Which reminds me.”  Nicky reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and power bank.  “We got a plane stashed near Łódź.  If it’s still there, he can use it.” </p><p>“Can he even pilot a jet?” Joe asked, while his heart strummed <i>Andy’s been bitten, Andy’s been bitten, Andy’s been bitten</i>.  They’d known for a while now that Andy was going to die, but the plan was for her to die of old age, comfortable and as content as she ever got, in her fucking <i>sleep</i>.  They’d voted on it while Andy had been in the bathroom, regretting her decision to eat a second helping of Nile’s five-alarm chili.  </p><p>“Got his license in ’96.”  Nicky typed a long message and pressed send, but he didn’t look up from his phone screen.  “If we use the fuel stop in Maine, we can be at the rendezvous in about 24 hours.  If the fuel’s still there.  If the jet in Beauvais is still there.  If not, we’ve got a problem.” </p><p>If the jet in Beauvais was gone, Joe was going to commit a number of very specific, premeditated crimes.  “The jet will be there,” he said out loud, because Nicky needed the reassurance and, quite frankly, Joe needed to hear the words, too.  “And so will the fuel.  We’ll get to her in time.” </p><p>Nicky swallowed.  “Yes,” he said, but his shoulders hunched in and he was still staring at his phone and Joe knew without a doubt that Nicky was hearing the same insidious whispers in his mind that Joe was hearing.  <i>She’s going to die.  Andy’s going to be long gone by the time we reach her.  The world will be Andy-less.  There’ll be no more Andy.  We’re going to lose her.  We’re going to <b>lose</b> her.</i> </p><p>“Come here.”  </p><p>Nicky connected the phone to the power bank, put both on the table very carefully, and then stood up and moved over to the couch.  He faltered briefly, clearly torn on where he wanted to be the most, then sank to his knees before Joe.  Joe spread his legs to let him get closer and pulled him in, holding him tight.  He breathed in deeply, smelled sweat and blood and that acrid fired-gun-smell, and beneath all that something subtle that was pure Nicky and always had been, since the first time they’d died in each other’s arms.  </p><p>“I love you,” he whispered into Nicky’s ear and Nicky’s arms tightened around him in response.  “As long as I have you, I am content.  As long as the two of us live, we’ll remember Andromache of Scythia, just as we remember Quynh.  They’ll always be with us wherever we go.  And when our time comes, we will sleep with them for all eternity.”  </p><p>A damp spot was growing on his shoulder.  Nicky sniffled quietly and clung a little tighter.  “Goddamn romantic,” he croaked wetly, and Joe chuckled faintly and held on, his entire life in his arms, warm and familiar and alive.  His heart ached with affection and amazement.  This man was his and his alone.  All that trust and devotion was for him.  Nicky spilled the tears Joe couldn’t shed right then and Joe’s frantic thoughts calmed until all he heard was Nicky’s hitching breaths and all he felt was the way their bodies fit together… and the itching of the bite mark on his wrist. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Community Hospital Clinic <br/>Congress, Arizona</b>
</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” whispered the frazzled-looking, elderly doctor Nile had found sleeping on a cot in a supply room.  She stared at the writhing, growling children, trussed up like homicidal turkeys and covered in dried and fresh blood.  “What am I supposed to do with these things?” </p><p>“I don’t care,” Andy said. </p><p>“Sedate them?” Nile proposed.  </p><p>The girl fought to get out of Andy’s grip and when that didn’t work, she yowled angrily behind her gag and pissed herself.  Andy watched her dispassionately.  “Take them out back and shoot them,” she suggested.  </p><p>Nile glared at her.  “Andy!” </p><p>“Sorry.”  Andy took a step back to avoid the growing puddle and gave the doctor a tight smile.  “Lock them in a closet and call the sheriff.  We left their parents in their car north of Eloy.  Blue SUV, Texas plates.  Alecto and Megaera here ate most of their faces though.” </p><p>“Oh, you know their names?” the doctor asked, clearly clinging to the only bit of information that seemed comparatively harmless. </p><p>Andy stared at her blankly.  “No.  Why?” </p><p>“You just called them Alecto and… Megan?” </p><p>Andy rolled her eyes.  “Alecto and Megaera are two of the Erinyes.”  All that got her was an empty look.  Andy raised an eyebrow.  “Bloodthirsty Greek deities?” </p><p>“Pretty dated reference,” Nile threw in hastily, a little worried by the level of irritation Andy was starting to radiate.  The immortals were usually scarily good at using modern terminology.  A bit of old-timey slang slipped through occasionally, and Nicky was inexplicably incapable of shaking his Italian accent, but for people who’d walked the earth when crossbows had been considered the height of technology, they had adapted to modern times to an unbelievable degree.  They were much more likely to mix up language-specific idioms than use obsolete words or phrases.  As far as Nile could tell, they even <i>thought</i> in modern patterns.  It was unusual for Andy to fall back on such an outdated expression. </p><p>Thankfully, the boy cannibal chose that moment to lunge for Nile’s fingers again with a high-pitched growl.  It made all of them reel back instinctively and the doctor was successfully distracted.  </p><p>“I’ll try some Midazolam,” she muttered, and turned around to rummage through her cupboards.  “Or maybe Ketamine… Did you… how’s things in Phoenix?”</p><p>“The road was blocked,” Nile told her, keeping a wary eye on Andy, who in turn was watching the little girl with worrisome intensity.  It was hard to tell what she was thinking at the best of times, but Nile had absolutely no idea what was going through that proud head right then.  “We drove around.” </p><p>“Oh,” the doctor deflated visibly.  “That’s… Oh.”  She paused briefly, then went back to looking for her sedatives.  “My daughter lives there,” she said eventually.  “I haven’t been able to reach her since yesterday.” </p><p>Nile’s heart broke a little for her and with her own grief, which was still a fresh wound.  She’d forget for a bit, would be distracted by what was happening around her, and then it’d hit her again, like a ton of bricks.  And maybe it was better, objectively, to know for sure, but she would’ve given anything to still have hope.  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.  “Though, y’know, cell phone reception has been pretty spotty lately.  She might still be okay.” </p><p>“Yeah.”  The doctor turned around and attempted a smile, but her mouth didn’t want to curve up.  It just kind of wobbled for a bit.  “Could be.”  She glanced at Andy.  “Can you hold her still?” </p><p>Andy wrapped a sinewy arm around the girl and caught the messy head under her chin, her vulnerable throat pressed firmly against the back of the girl’s skull.  “Go ahead.”</p><hr/><p>The ketamine worked, sort of.  It made the children drowsy and unfocused.  It didn’t knock them out, but the doctor promised to keep an eye on them and keep contacting the authorities until someone came to collect them.  </p><p>“Do you want me to have a look at your arm?” the doctor asked, nodding at the bandage.  </p><p>“Yes!” Nile said, at the same time that Andy firmly said, “No.” </p><p>“She’s an actual physician, Andy,” Nile argued.  “I’m not.  Let her check.” </p><p>Andy turned to face her fully and the cold fire in her gaze made Nile freeze.  This was not Andy.  This was Andromache of Scythia.  “We’re leaving,” Andy said, very calmly.  Nile had had less visceral reactions to drill sergeants screaming directly in her face.  Andy’s eyes narrowed, only a little, barely noticeable.  “Now,” she added.  </p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” Nile breathed.  Her arm twitched in an aborted attempt to salute.  She nodded at the doctor.  “Good luck, doc.”  </p><p>“Wait, where are you going?” the doctor asked, alarmed.  </p><p>“We have somewhere to be,” Andy said shortly.  </p><p>“But the children–”</p><p>“If you can’t deal with them, put them down.  If you can’t stomach that, lock them up somewhere secure and throw away the key.”  Andy turned around and marched to the door.  </p><p>Nile winced at her bluntness, but honestly, she wasn’t willing to start arguing with Andy about this.  This was a different situation than the one with, well, Alecto and Megaera.  She was sorry for the doctor, but this clinic out in the middle of nowhere was probably one of the safer places right now.  There was no immediate danger.  The children had been tied up by Andy and sedated, so they weren’t a threat.  The doctor had enough supplies and a car right outside.  She was an adult and able to take care of herself.  And, frankly, Nile had her orders.  </p><p>She hurried after Andy, who was stomping toward the car.  Andy stopped at the driver’s door, swore, and went around the car to the passenger side.  Nile caught the keys that came flying at her and slid behind the steering wheel.  </p><p>“Copy shop?” she asked meekly.  </p><p>“Grocery store,” Andy said, staring straight ahead, still with that unsettling, intense look in her eyes.  “I’m hungry.” </p><p>“Didn’t you want to print the–” </p><p>Andy turned her head and bared her teeth.  “I’m <i>hungry</i>, Nile.” </p><p>The penny dropped and the blood drained from Nile’s face.  “Oh.  Oh shit.  Already?” </p><p>“Just drive.”</p><p>Nile drove. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Near Łódź, Poland</b>
</p><p>Quynh had acquired a sword from a small museum on their way to Łódź and was mainly using it to enthusiastically stab people.  Booker had decided to stick with the fire axe.  He appreciated the heft of it and it was more efficient, if your goal was to split skulls and be done with it.  Which was most emphatically his goal, because unlike Quynh, he wasn’t a <i>sadist</i>.  </p><p>“It’s for <i>science</i>,” Quynh insisted, earnestly.  “We gotta make sure they don’t <i>really</i> become immortal.  Because that would be bad.”  </p><p>She wasn’t wrong about that, but then again, it wasn’t the idea behind her actions Booker was complaining about.  It was the number of times she tended to stab people.  Also, the grim delight on her face as she did.  </p><p>“What would Dr. Zimmermann say?” he complained, watching with a growing level of distress as Quynh cut into her final opponent with almost clinical precision.  </p><p>Quynh studied her handiwork for a moment, then finished off the young man she’d been toying with and turned to face him.  “Book, I love you, but you’re starting to piss me off.”  </p><p>“I don’t like killing civilians,” Booker snapped, his own frustration boiling up at the sight of all the dead bodies around them.  “We could’ve avoided this by going around the damn village.”  </p><p>“And there’s your problem,” Quynh said.  “’Civilians’.  You still think these things can be saved and go back to human.”  </p><p>“They <i>are</i> human.”  </p><p>Quynh’s hard gaze softened a little at his outcry.  “No,” she said, calmly.  “They’re not.  They’ve snapped beyond repair.  Can’t you tell?  It’s in their eyes.  They’re gone.  They’re not coming back, not ever.”  </p><p>Booker shook his head and shifted his weight, agitated.  “<i>You</i> came back,” he reminded her.  “You spent five hundred years at the bottom of the ocean in a <i>coffin</i> and you came back.” </p><p>“Not all the way,” Quynh admitted.  “Not yet.” </p><p>But that was the point, wasn’t it?  “I’m not saying they’ll be all right,” Booker said.  “Of course they won’t be.  But you’re getting better.  If they find a cure–” </p><p>“<i>If</i> they find a cure, they may stop trying to kill people,” Quynh agreed.  “It won’t save their minds.  I spent.”  She cleared her throat.  It had been years, but she still hated to talk about it, so very much.  “I spent half a century dying again and again.  I’m not sane, we both know that.” </p><p>“But you–”</p><p>“–but when I looked in a mirror for the first time after I got free, I still saw myself in there.  I was still <i>there</i>.  They’re not.  They’re empty shells.  They’re fucking <i>caricatures</i> of what we are.”  She pointed at the half-healed wound across her last kill’s chest with the tip of her sword.  “The kindest thing you can do is put them out of our misery and keep them from killing or infecting anybody else.” </p><p>“No.  You’re wrong.  If we find that fucking Dr. Frankenstein, we can get her to reverse this.” </p><p>Quynh barked out a laugh.  “Really?  You think this was deliberate?”  She gestured broadly at everything around them.  “I’m telling you, she fucked up.  Maybe she’s one of these things now herself.  Don’t bet on her being able to fix this.” </p><p>“I have to,” Booker shouted.  He was unraveling and afraid it was starting to show.  “I have to believe there’s a way to fix this.” </p><p>“Why?”  Quynh tilted her head and studied him with her dark, way too perceptive eyes.  “Because of Andy?” </p><p>Booker deflated.  “It can’t end like this,” he said, plaintively.  “This is not how Andy should go out.” </p><p>“You think we’re going to lock her up, feed her, and wait for a cure?” Quynh gave him a look so full of pity Booker almost hated her for a moment.  “We’re going to her to say goodbye.  To finish our business with her.  And to give her mercy before she loses herself.” </p><p>“She won’t.”  Booker shook his head and crossed his arms to hide how much his hands were shaking, too.  He wanted a drink.  He <i>needed</i> a drink.  These kinds of conversation weren’t meant to be had sober.  One of the train survivors had given him a bottle of Slivovitz, but Quynh had tossed it, damn her.  </p><p>She was relentless in this, too, like that goddamn therapist.  “Why wouldn’t she?” </p><p>“Because she’s fucking <i>Andy</i>,” Booker insisted.  </p><p>“She’s no longer immortal.”  </p><p>“She’s <i>Andy</i>,” Booker repeated.  He couldn’t help it.  He knew, deep in his gut, that this was not how Andromache of Scythia was supposed to leave this world.  Mortal or not, that woman was a force of nature.  Even when he’d betrayed her to chase his own demise, he had never really thought that Merrick and his pet scientists would ever crack her code.  He’d mainly handed her over so they’d all be together.  Selfishly, he’d wanted her there so he’d have the courage to get through the pain to the reward promised to him.  Truth be told, he’d half expected her to break her fetters and finish him herself.  If anybody could make it stick, it had to be Andy. </p><p>Quynh sighed.  “I’ve been there.”  She wiped her sword on one of the fallen men’s shirt and slid it back into its scabbard.  “Let’s be honest, that’s why I’m stabbing people left and right.  We both have our issues with Andromache.”  She breathed out deeply and looked around, assessing their surroundings before moving on.  “What about a deal?” </p><p>“What sort of deal?” Booker asked, suspiciously.  </p><p>He’d given up on trying to clean the axe.  Instead, he grabbed his bag from where he’d dropped it and fell in step with Quynh as she walked off.  The estate and private airstrip maintained by one of the Old Guard’s shell companies wasn’t far from the village, which was how they’d ended up there in the first place.  Nicky had texted him the necessary info and entry codes, bless him.  Booker had been planning to highjack a plane at Kraków airport, because it was one of the few international airports still in operation.  A private plane was so much easier.  Provided it was still there, that was. </p><p>Quynh gestured between them.  “I’ll stop pretending these things are Andromache and stabbing them excessively if you stop looking for booze and admit to yourself that you’re going to outlive Andy.” </p><p>Booker mulled this over as they walked, keeping a weather eye out for raging crazies charging at them from out of the dark.  “That’s a shit deal,” he decided eventually.  “You still get to kill your stand-ins while I’m putting in all the emotional labor with no payoff.” </p><p>“I can’t well stop killing them.  They keep trying to eat us.” </p><p>“Uh-huh.  So, since my hang-ups are apparently so much worse, what are <i>you</i> going to say to Andy when we get there in time?  Which we will, don’t even start.”  </p><p>Quynh’s left eye twitched a little, which Booker only noticed because he was looking for it.  He smirked to himself.  Quynh cracked her neck.  “I’m going to say… hi.” </p><p>“Yes, and?” </p><p>Silence.  Quynh walked faster, but since Booker had longer legs, that didn’t accomplish anything.  He had to admit that confronting Quynh about her issues made him feel better about his own.  It might lead to him getting killed in a fit of temper, but all in all, it was a pattern that had worked for them nicely so far.  Quynh tended to project her trauma outward in pretty destructive ways, Booker internalized and turned self-destructive, but the mechanisms were surprisingly similar.  They couldn’t hide from each other, they couldn’t leave lasting damage on each other, and so they’d settled on nagging and bullying each other into progress for the past few years.  Give them another decade or two and they might actually venture into the outskirts of “mentally stable”.  </p><p>“…I’m still not letting you drink,” Quynh grumbled after a several minutes of internal flailing.  </p><p>“I still want you to stop stabbing those poor bastards so much,” Booker shot back.  </p><p>“We’re not gonna roleplay meeting Andy, I don’t care how long that flight takes.” </p><p>“You’re terrible at roleplaying anyway,” Booker said placidly.  </p><p>“Well then.” </p><p>“Truce?” </p><p>“Truce.”  Quynh slowed down again.  She glanced at him and cleared her throat.  “Just… check your expectations, all right?  If Andy’s not munching on humans already, she might be by the time we get there.” </p><p>“Quynh–”</p><p>“I know, I know,” Quynh sighed.  “It’s Andy.  Try not to get your hopes up anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>US-93<br/>near Kingman, Arizona</b>
</p><p>“Still hungry?” </p><p>Andy glared at the road ahead and wiped her mouth.  “We will never talk about this.” </p><p>Nile rolled her eyes.  “Hey, I’m not judging.  Whatever it takes.”  She glanced over to find Andy licking her fingers surreptitiously.  “Seriously though.  You good for now?” </p><p>“I’m good.”  </p><p>She sounded almost content, which made Nile’s mouth twitch up into a smile.  “I can’t believe it was the Twinkies that did the trick.” </p><p>“Shut up, Nile.” </p><p>“I thought you were a baklava woman.”  </p><p>“Shut <i>up</i>, Nile.” </p><p>Nile chuckled.  “What?  It’s nice to know you have trash taste, too, sometimes.”  </p><p>Andy sighed and slid down in her seat until she could put her feet up on the dashboard to get them out of the small mountain of empty Twinkie wrappers on the floor.  “I’m gonna eat you first.”  </p><p>“No, you won’t,” Nile said happily.  “You love me.” </p><p>“Not right now, I don’t.” </p><p>“There’s more boxes of Twinkies in the trunk for you.” </p><p>Andy reconsidered.  “How many?” </p><p>“Five.” </p><p>“I love you,” Andy declared immediately.  “You’re my favorite.” </p><p>“Ha!  I knew it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Deadman's Road</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Red Pine Grove Airfield, Maine</b>
</p><p>Sometimes, Nicky missed traveling by horse.  He <i>liked</i> horses.  He still remembered a lot of the ones he’d owned over the centuries and he missed more of them than he’d ever anticipated.  Hercules, for example, a big, chestnut gelding with a rolling, bow-legged gait.  Amazing horse.  Steadfast and solid.  Scared of chickens, for some reason.  Had had a habit of nuzzling Nicky’s neck with his lip.  Or Fox, the red mare with the tattered ear.  Smoothest trot ever.  Real fuzzy winter fur.  Had once spooked and tossed Nicolo right at Yusuf’s feet, much to Yusuf’s delight.  Those were only two in a long list of amazing companions that he still grieved for occasionally.  </p><p>It had been a completely different way of travel, and while he did think back on it with a certain measure of nostalgia, he had to admit that modern transportation had its advantages.  It was so much faster, for one.  No need to mourn when a Jeep died.  No <i>moods</i> (though, on the other hand, no <i>character</i> either).  Considerably less animal hair everywhere and generally much more room for gear and weapons.  The smell was debatable, but a flat tire was usually much easier to fix than a lame horse leg and anyway, they were now making airless tires that just didn’t go flat.  Also, most importantly:  horses couldn’t fly.  At least not on their own.  Crossing an ocean in a few hours was amazing even though it gave him nightmares about crashing and ending up like Quynh.  </p><p>All things considered, Nicky was a cautious fan of airplanes, especially when he was in a hurry.  They’d made it from France to Maine in record time thanks to a strong tailwind, they hadn’t crashed, nobody had tried to shoot them from the sky, and once they’d touched down and checked their messages, they’d found a recent one from Nile saying she and Andy were on their way to their rendezvous point and that Andy was still hanging in there.  Things could’ve been worse. </p><p>Things could’ve been better, too.  </p><p>“Who stakes out an abandoned airstrip on the off-chance that a plane might drop in?” Joe complained under his breath as he patted down his pockets in search for a spare magazine.  “We’re in the middle of nowhere!” </p><p>Nicky handed him one of his extra magazines and checked him over for injuries with a quick glance.  Joe had dirt on his face and pine needles in his hair and beard from where he’d dived into the copse of trees currently providing them with some meager cover, but other than that he looked fine.  Livid, but fine.  Good.  Nicky was still undecided whether he really wanted to kill civilians even if they were currently spraying them with bullets.  At least their aim was shit.  </p><p>“People are getting desperate.” </p><p>“Well, I don’t know what they expect to do,” Joe bitched.  “They clearly haven’t found the fuel and the tank is almost empty.” </p><p>“They don’t know that,” Nicky reminded him dryly.  </p><p>A stray bullet smacked into the tree Joe had taken cover behind and he ducked away from the splinters with a curse.  “They could’ve <i>asked</i>.” </p><p>“They probably think we’re criminals.” </p><p>Joe blinked.  “Why the hell would they think that?” </p><p>Because they’d landed a private jet with a foreign tail number on an abandoned airstrip in Maine that was mostly used for clandestine CIA drop-offs and shady transactions.  Because Joe was dressed like a fashionable assassin and Nicky like he was trying too hard not to stand out.  Because they’d left the plane with a bundle of blood-drenched clothes (easily identifiable by a bloody sleeve waving in the breeze) and very visibly armed.  </p><p>Nicky did his best to convey all that with a long look.  Joe, because he was awesome and also knew Nicky like the back of his hand, either read him correctly or had come to the same conclusions, because he huffed reluctantly and went back to shooting over the assholes’ heads to keep them at bay.  </p><p><i>In dubio pro reo</i>.  When in doubt, for the accused.  </p><p>“Still doesn’t give them the right to shoot at us,” he grumbled into his beard.  </p><p>“Two options,” Nicky said calmly, because one of them had to bring it up.  “I can shoot them from here, no problem.”  He shrugged a shoulder to draw attention to the sniper rifle slung over his back.  “Or we parlay.” </p><p>“You could kneecap them,” Joe suggested. </p><p>“They’re armed to the teeth.”  And neither of them had died since they’d been bitten, he didn’t say.  He didn’t have to, because Joe’s gaze traveled to Nicky’s side immediately.  The scar was as good as gone by then, only the barest hint of silvery tissue left, and he hadn’t been unusually hungry since they’d left Paris.  He hoped that meant his immortal body had beaten whatever had caused the delay in healing, but he wasn’t sure.  He was even less sure about Joe, whose scar might be starting to fade but was still clearly visible.  He’d rather not risk it before they’d made it to Andy.  </p><p>If they decided to take out their ambushers, Nicky was going to take them out for good, no compromise.  The decision, though, that had to be Joe’s, because Joe was the one who assessed situations like this and decided on whether or not to negotiate.  Nicky wasn’t good with talking.  He provided the alternative.  </p><p>Joe leaned over to peek around his tree and study the group huddled behind their own greenery.  He watched them for a few minutes, then sighed deeply.  “Fuck my life, they’re a hot mess.  Parlay it is.”   </p><p>“One drop-off, and only if it’s en route,” Nicky told him, and slipped the rifle off his back.  “No detours.”  </p><p>He was willing to give this a try, because that’s what they did, ever since the crusades.  They protected civilians.  But if any of them so much as looked at their gun during negotiations, Nicky was going to put them down.  No dying this time.  They’d have to work under the assumption that they might stay dead and Nicky wasn’t done with this life yet and he sure as hell wasn’t done with Joe.  Which reminded him…</p><p>“Also, we’re not giving them supplies.  You need to keep eating.” </p><p>“I’m better,” Joe claimed.  His stomach rumbled promptly, calling him a liar.  He deflated, as was right and proper.  “No supplies.  Got it.”</p><p>“Their weapons go in the cargo hold.” </p><p>“Well, yes, <i>obviously</i>.  Anything else?” </p><p>Nicky thought about it.  Came up with an unsettling mental image of Andy in full cannibal mode, and nodded.  “They can’t come with us to Fort Dysentery.  If they don’t have a plan, they better come up with one pronto.” </p><p>“That… yeah, good point.  That would get ugly.”  Joe cracked his neck and patted his pockets.  “Got anything white on you?” </p><p>Nicky looked down at his socks and then back up at his menace of a partner. </p><p>Joe grinned.</p><hr/><p>Something tickled the sole of his bare foot.  </p><p>Nicolo breathed in slowly and tasted earth and pines and gunfire. </p><p>Joe was crying all over him, wet and miserable. </p><p>He breathed out and tasted blood.  </p><p>Oh. </p><p>For fuck’s sake.</p><hr/><p>It took Joe half an hour to calm down.  Apparently, one of the teenagers had fumbled his gun in the middle of the negotiation and shot Nicky by accident when Nicky had stepped in front of Joe.  He’d then pissed himself and cried hysterically, which was the only reason why Joe hadn’t committed multiple murders right then and there.  He’d still kicked their asses back into their vehicles and sent them packing.  </p><p>“They’re probably going to die,” Nicky observed, but given that he was still hacking up congealed blood from where most of his throat had been blown apart by a 9mm hollow point bullet, he couldn’t muster a whole lot of compassion.  </p><p>“They’re lucky I didn’t kill them on the spot,” Joe snarled.  “Hold still.”  He tipped more water onto the clean part of Nicky’s shirt and carefully wiped the blood from Nicky’s face.  His hand was shaking badly.  Nicky petted his arm clumsily, still a little uncoordinated.  </p><p>“At least we know it still works.” </p><p>“You were dead for almost <i>twenty minutes</i>.”  The shaking got so bad Joe had to stop his ministrations.  Instead, he pulled Nicky further up into his lap and hugged him desperately.   “I thought you were <i>gone</i>.”  </p><p>He was tearing up again and Nicky’s heart broke for him.  He hugged back as hard as he could, breathing in Joe’s familiar scent, soothed by the solid warmth wrapped around him protectively.  This was what they both dreaded the most; that, one day, one of them would die for good and leave the other behind.  It was the nightmare that had followed them through the ages, the one fear they had never been able to shake.  It was why Nicky had stepped forward when he’d spotted the sudden movement and taken the bullet in Joe’s stead.  Better to be the one who went first, because the thought of surviving Joe was too much to bear.  He was selfish that way. </p><p>“I’m here,” he whispered in Joe’s ear and held on tight as Joe’s tears washed away the blood on his shoulder.  “I’m alive.  I love you.  I love you.  I’m still here.” </p><p>Joe hiccupped wetly.  “Fucking stop it with the dying.” </p><p>This, of course, was an old complaint.  “I will if you will,” Nicky said firmly, and clung a little tighter.  </p><p>“I thought this was it.” </p><p><i>So did I</i>, Nicky thought, but wisely didn’t admit it out loud.  He just breathed, slowly and deeply, and after a while, Joe’s sniffles abated and his breathing slowed down to match Nicky’s.  </p><p>“We gotta get going,” Nicky said finally, reluctantly.  </p><p>Joe pressed a kiss against his forehead.  “One more minute.”  </p><p>He was a persuasive man, that Yusuf Al-Kaysani. </p><p>“One more minute,” Nicky agreed, and closed his eyes.  </p><p>One more lifetime.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Somewhere over Canada</b>
</p><p>“Are we there yet?” </p><p>Booker had put the jet on autopilot and was munching on a disappointingly mealy apple.  He looked up from the flight charts he was perusing to watch Quynh stagger into the cockpit, grumpy and rumpled.  She was wearing his shirt again.  Hairs were stuck to it already.  Being claimed by Quynh was like being claimed by a goddamn cat.  “Look who’s up and awake again.  You okay?” </p><p>“I’m fine.”  Quynh plopped down onto the copilot seat next to him and stole his apple.  “Got a funny taste in my mouth though.  What did you put in that IV?” </p><p>“Does it matter?” Booker asked mildly.  He smirked when she bit into the apple and made a face at the texture.  “It kept you knocked out the entire time we were flying over the water, didn’t it?” </p><p>Quynh conceded the point with a shrug.  “It did.”  She chewed meditatively and swallowed.  “Thank you.” </p><p>“You’re welcome.”  </p><p>He did appreciate that Quynh knew her limits.  Had it been easy to acquire enough sedatives to knock out a fast-healing immortal for the duration of a trans-Atlantic flight?  No.  Had it been better than dealing with a freaked-out, terrified Quynh suffering from flashbacks and panic attacks?  Hell, yes.  Also, after all the pain he’d caused the rest of his family, he was grateful for the opportunity to spare Quynh some unnecessary suffering.  </p><p>“Where are we?” Quynh asked, trying to peek at the maps on his lap.  </p><p>Booker shifted so she could catch a better look.  “Canadian airspace,” he said, and pointed out their approximate position.  “No trouble at the New Brunswick fuel stop.”  </p><p>No outside trouble, anyway.  He’d slipped on the emergency fold-out stairs and broken most of the bones in his wrist, but that was one of the advantages of being immortal:  no proof remained of his clumsiness.  That stupid slip was going to remain his little secret.  </p><p>“Any news from the others?”  </p><p>“Last I heard, Joe and Nicky made it to their Maine fuel stop.  Nile and Andy were stuck at a checkpoint in Vegas.” </p><p>Quynh bit into the apple again and then stared down at it, studying her handiwork.  “And Andy?” </p><p>“She didn’t say.”  Booker tried to catch Quynh’s gaze, but she refused to engage.  That apple core must’ve been fascinating.  “Hey,” he said, gently.  “Nile would’ve mentioned it if she snapped.  I’m sure Andy’s–” <i>fine</i> probably wasn’t the appropriate adjective in this situation, “–still herself,” Booker finished lamely.  “Probably hangry as hell though.” </p><p>This made Quynh glance up at him, confused.  “Hangry?” </p><p>“So hungry she’s angry,” Booker explained.  “You know, the way Nicky gets when he’s missed lunch?” </p><p>“Ohhh.”  Quynh nodded immediately.  “Got it.” </p><p>People may change over time, but certain things remained the same.  Nicky needed a semi-regular feeding schedule or he turned into a gremlin.  It took coffee or mortal peril to get Joe going once he’d deigned to wake up… and coffee worked better.  Put Andy in front of a campfire and she told stories.  Leave your clothes uninhabited for too long and Quynh would steal them and leave long, dark hairs all over them and get <i>crumbs</i> in them.  (He’d known that even before he’d met her, because of Andy’s stories.)  Nile was too new for her most persistent traits to have unfolded yet and Booker… well.  He’d probably still be a moody bastard bookworm when he reached Andy’s age.  </p><p>The idea of living that long was still scary, but it wasn’t as overwhelmingly horrifying as it had been before therapy.  Before Quynh.  </p><p>“Are you worried?” Quynh asked after a while.  “About seeing them again?” </p><p>It was Booker’s turn to avoid her gaze.  Instead, he held out his hand to show her the tremors that ran through it at the thought.  He pulled his arm back almost immediately and cleared his throat, deeply uncomfortable.  “You?” </p><p>“I don’t know.”  Quynh pulled up her legs, wrapped her arms around them and rested her chin on her knees.  She looked uncharacteristically vulnerable; a slender woman wrapped in a big cotton shirt, curled up in the roomy co-pilot chair like a lost child.  It wasn’t often that she let down her guard like this, but it made Booker stupidly proud that she did it in his presence.  If Quynh showed trust in him, he’d <i>earned</i> it.  He was <i>worth</i> it, even if he had trouble believing that about himself.  </p><p>For a long while, Quynh stared blindly at the instrument panel, watching the altitude indicator and rubbing her thumb over a fold in Booker’s shirt.  Booker let her be.  She’d talk when she wanted to talk.  If she wanted to talk.  And if she just wanted his company… well, he wasn’t going anywhere.  </p><p>“I loved her,” she said finally, so quietly Booker almost didn’t register her words.  He looked up and waited for more.  It wasn’t that Quynh never talked about her feelings for Andy.  On the contrary, she’d worked through quite a spectrum of emotion since she’d resurfaced, but it was usually a loud and/or vitriolic process.  Broken trust was a bitter, ugly thing that made it very hard to see the other person’s perspective.  Booker was morbidly fascinated by Quynh’s feelings about Andy, because he assumed that Andy, Nicky, and especially Joe felt very similarly about Booker himself.  It was a bit like being a fly on the wall without having to fear the fly swatter.  </p><p>Quynh was calm now, almost pensive.  She looked like a part of her was a million miles away, though in reality it was probably several hundred years in the past instead.  </p><p>“I loved her when they put me in the coffin,” she said, “and I loved her when they tossed me overboard.  And I kept loving her as I drowned and drowned.  She was going to save me.  Of course she was.  She always did.  I was so sure of it.  It was going to take a while, but one day, I’d open my eyes and there she’d be.”  Her thumb stopped rubbing the fabric as she tucked it into a white-knuckled fist.  “But she wasn’t even looking anymore.  She gave up on me long before I gave up on her.” </p><p>Booker kept his mouth shut and watched her warily.  If she dipped into a flashback, he’d have to pull her from the seat and away from the control column, because she tended to lash out when she went back under.  But all she did was hit the arm rest, once, and then she turned her head and looked at Booker and the anguish in her eyes made a lump form in his throat.  </p><p>“I hated her so much when I realized she wasn’t coming.  So, so much.  I wanted her to suffer.”  </p><p><i>I’ll keep her in a fucking swimming pool</i>, she’d hissed once, in the dark, back in the early days before he’d convinced her to come to therapy with him.  <i>I’ll keep her in a plastic cage that’ll never rust and never rot and I’ll have breakfast at the pool every morning and watch her drown and sometimes, sometimes I’ll have a nice swim in the pool and I’ll piss in the fucking water.</i>  It had been only one plan of several, but it had stuck with Booker because of its simple cruelty.  </p><p>“I don’t want her to be <i>gone</i>,” Quynh admitted now.  “And I don’t want her to end like these <i>things</i>, nothing but a bag of bones needing to feed.  I want her to be around so I can yell at her and get her apology.  And, maybe, one day… I want to walk by her side again.  I know it won’t be like it was before, but I want to see if we can heal and become something <i>new</i>, you know?  Something worth waiting for.”</p><p>Booker swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded.  He wanted that, too.  It was why he’d stopped drinking and finally decided to confront his demons.  </p><p>“You know she’ll do whatever it takes to get there,” he said.  </p><p>Quynh’s chin quivered alarmingly.  “What if she doesn’t?” she whispered, and this was new, this was a hidden fear coming to light that she’d kept buried so far.  “What if she left me down there because she was secretly glad I was gone?  What if she never really loved me?” </p><p>Alarmed, Booker sat up straight in his chair.  “Quynh–”</p><p>The metaphorical train, however, had left the tunnel now and it was quickly picking up speed.  “We were the only ones for so long, Book.  She didn’t have a choice but to be with me.  We only had Lykon for such a short while.  But then we found Yusuf and Nicolo and maybe… maybe she was happy that I wasn’t there anymore.  Maybe I was her <i>burden</i> and she was relieved when I was gone.  I mean, I can be obnoxious, and I cling, and I have a temper, and… maybe–”</p><p>“Bullshit.”  Booker twisted in his seat, got caught in the flight charts, fought free, and reached over to snatch up a small, bony hand.  “When I met her, I thought she’d lost you recently.  She was grieving then and she never stopped grieving as long as I’ve known her.  She still wears your necklace.  She’s killed to protect it and you know Andy.  She doesn’t normally kill for <i>stuff</i>.  She keeps one of Joe’s drawings of you with her, always.  He creates new ones every time she wears them down, because she keeps pulling them out and staring at them.” </p><p>Quynh blinked.  “You never told me that.” </p><p>“I did once,” he reminded her, not unkindly.  “You stabbed me in the neck.” </p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>“Yes,” Booker echoed, wryly.  “Oh.  You know, I dreamed of you every damn night.  Jerked awake, gasped for air.  I felt her eyes on me every time.  She never went to sleep until I confirmed for her that you were still out there somewhere.  And I thought, y’know… <i>at least she still has hope</i>.” </p><p>Quynh’s thin fingers twitched in his hand.  “Was this why you started to drink?” </p><p>“No.”  Quynh raised an eyebrow at him.  “In part,” Booker amended reluctantly.  “Mostly I drank because I was mourning my family and my old life.  And because I was depressed.  And suicidal.  And jealous.”  He squeezed her hand carefully.  “But that’s not the point.  The point is that Andy loved you and loves you and she’ll never forgive herself for not being the one who got you out of that coffin.” </p><p>“I’m still mad at her,” Quynh confessed, as if <i>that</i> had ever been a secret. </p><p>“It’s your right to feel the way you’re feeling.” </p><p>Quynh rolled her eyes.  “But not to act on those feelings indiscriminately.  I know.” </p><p>“Do you still love her?” Booker asked carefully.  </p><p>That took a minute, but eventually, Quynh nodded slightly.  “I think I do.”  Her hand twisted in his, opened, stretched, until their fingers interlaced.  “I do.” </p><p>Booker breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.  “Then we’ll go from there.  One step at a time.  And whatever happens, you’ll still have me.” </p><p>He expected a laugh at that, but Quynh just stared at him intently.  “Promise?” </p><p>What could Booker say to that except, “I promise,” and mean it?  They were holding each other’s broken pieces, exchanging them slowly, bit by bit, as they put themselves back together, kintsugi-style, and in the process, they’d become entangled.  It was beautiful and terrifying and Booker wouldn’t have given it up for the world. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Las Vegas, Nevada</b>
</p><p>“We should’ve driven around Vegas,” Andy muttered grimly, eying the National Guardsmen bustling around them in their hazmat suits with cool calculation.  </p><p>It made them understandably nervous.  Andy could be pretty unsettling at the best of times, but her patience was running thin and that ramped up the predatory vibes exponentially.  There were a lot of guns at the ready in their vicinity and most of them were vaguely aimed in her direction.  This was a very weird experience for Nile, who, as a black woman, was more used to being the one in the crosshairs of nervous white people.  She would’ve found it funny if Andy had still been immortal.  As it was, it mostly made her edgy. </p><p>“You can’t drive ‘around’ Vegas,” she muttered, most of her attention focused on various twitchy trigger fingers.  “We should’ve taken the I-40 and gone via Barstow.” </p><p>That had been the original plan, actually, but several huge pileups with roaming cannibals had forced them to get on the US-93 and drive through Nevada instead.  They could’ve gotten around the wrecks on foot, but finding a car on the other side would’ve been a time-consuming problem and Nile hadn’t been sure how much time Andy had left.  </p><p>It was hard to tell how affected Andy was by the bite.  She’d had a few bad moments, but after Nile had raided a gas station or two and kept feeding her junk food, she’d seemed to stabilize somewhat.  While Copley had deteriorated steadily and been physically unable to keep down anything other than raw meat, Andy seemed to be hovering on a plateau.  She was munching on beef jerky right then, jaws working mechanically, the half-full bag clutched firmly in her right hand.  </p><p>The lone doctor who’d been at the checkpoint and had spotted the bandage even under Andy’s jacket was hovering nervously.  Apparently, people who were bitten tended to go berserk considerably faster than the initial cases that had been caused by the contaminated soda.  The good doctor was understandably curious about Andy’s apparent lack of violent insanity.  She kept asking questions, like, “How long has it been since she was bitten?” and “Can I take her temperature again?” and “How are you <i>feeling</i>, ma’am?”, but at least she made sure Andy always had access to food and water and she’d kept the guardsmen from shooting them dead, so Nile merely kept a wary eye on her.  She didn’t want to risk a repeat of the Merrick situation.  </p><p>Nile suspected they’d have to resort to violence sooner or later, but she really didn’t want to, because a) these people were only trying to keep everybody safe and b) she wasn’t entirely sure how Andy would react to blood and open wounds.  Right now, she was waiting for an opening.  A distraction.  Anything.  </p><p>“I miss horses,” Andy said around a mouthful of jerky.  “You don’t need to stick to roads on horseback.” </p><p>“No, but it takes forever to get anywhere,” Nile said with the conviction of someone who’d been forced to spend half a year on a ranch in Argentina with three overeager immortals who couldn’t wait to teach her how to ride a goddamn horse.  Even with her accelerated healing, she hadn’t been able to walk straight for weeks.  </p><p>“Maybe, but there are no checkpoints for horses,” Andy insisted.  She swallowed down the beef jerky and rummaged through the bag for another piece.  She seemed to have a system in place for choosing her next bite, but Nile hadn’t been able to figure it out yet.  </p><p>Nile watched Andy tear into a longish strip of jerky and shook her head.  “You probably would’ve ended up eating the horse anyway.  And then what?” </p><p>Andy chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then conceded the point with a frown and a shrug.  She turned to look at the nervous doctor.  “Hey.  You.  How about a deal?” </p><p>The doctor, a middle-aged woman whose name-tag identified her as “Dr. Pérez”, inched a little closer.  “What kind of deal?” </p><p>Andy gestured with her bag, making half a dozen armed men twitch like startled cats.  “I’ll let you draw blood.  I know you’re dying to know why I’m still sane.  I don’t think you’ll find the answer in a lab, by the way, but I’m willing to give you a sample.  Blood, spit, urine, all of the above – whatever your heart desires.” </p><p>“I could just take the samples,” Dr. Pérez said.  “Vegas is under martial law.  I don’t need your consent.”  </p><p>Andy smiled like a shark.  “You’d pay a high fucking price for every drop and you know it.”   </p><p>Dr. Pérez glanced around at her guards, who looked visibly rattled and very aware of the fact that it would be mainly them who’d be paying that price.  She looked back at Andy, who was crushing tough dried beef between her teeth and watching her with eldritch eyes.  </p><p>“What do you want for your cooperation?” </p><p>“Five minutes head start.” </p><p>The doctor took a step back.  “No.  I can’t do that.  If this is a fluke, you could turn aggressive any second.  We need to keep you contained for your own safety and the safety of everybody around you.  And if there is something about your immune system that helps you fight off this pathogen, we need to know how it works.” </p><p>Andy shrugged.  “That’s why I’m offering you the samples.  You can work on those.  No need to worry about me attacking people, that’s why I’ve got company.  If I lose it, she’ll take me out.” </p><p>“There’s no need for that.”  Dr. Pérez inched closer again.  “We can isolate you.  The best scientists in the world are working together to find a way to stop this, it’s only a question of time until–” </p><p>“Shhh.”  Andy cut her off with a sharp hand movement and tilted her head.  Everybody in the room, including Nile, immediately stood at attention and strained to listen for what she’d heard.  It didn’t take them long.  </p><p>
  <i>Thud.  Thud.</i>
</p><p>“That’s the back door,” the sergeant whispered.  </p><p>Andy’s head swung around like a military dog’s.  “Watch the front door then,” she ordered sharply.  “Back door’s obviously locked or they’d be in by now.  Front door’s open.” </p><p>She’d barely finished speaking when the screaming started outside.  </p><p><i>Fuck</i>, Nile thought.  </p><p>So much for keeping Andy away from bloodshed.</p><hr/><p>In the years since she’d become immortal and Andy mortal, Nile had appointed herself Andy’s personal bodyguard.  She fell into the role naturally, almost instinctively, because protecting people had always been part of Nile’s makeup and because it felt right to support the woman who had been her first guide in this crazy new world.  Joe and Nicky didn’t need special attention, they fought as a unit and covered each other.  Booker was temporarily banned from the core family, so he wasn’t part of this new dynamic.  It was only the four of them and Andy was vulnerable and Nile was still secretly delighting in how indestructible her body had become.  So Nile stepped up to the plate, the way she’d always done.  </p><p>She hadn’t realized that shielding Andy wasn’t a one-sided endeavor.  It worked so well because Andy allowed it and adapted her movements to keep Nile in her space.  This became suddenly evident when she stopped doing it.  </p><p>Nile huffed out an expletive and threw a salivating teenager over her shoulder before looking around for Andy again.  All around her, chaos reigned.  The guardsmen had tried to subdue the horde of attackers without killing them at first, but self-preservation instincts had kicked in quickly, so now they were trying to mow them down with gunfire.  The trouble was that the afflicted healed fast, so they didn’t stay down when they should’ve, and it didn’t help that the general accuracy of the shots fired was severely lacking.  </p><p>“Aim for the head!” the sergeant had yelled at some point and, yes, head shots seemed to do the trick, but most of the defenders had trouble hitting center mass when a bloodthirsty cannibal was coming at them full tilt.  They weren’t trained to do precision shooting in a melee situation with people running and dodging and moving all over the place.  </p><p>Where the hell was Andy?  </p><p>“Nile!  Car!”  </p><p>There she was.  Nile adjusted her line of sight and found Andy next to their car, gesturing impatiently.  Oh, yes, they’d locked the car when they’d been ordered to step out of the vehicle.  Nile jammed her hand into her jeans pocket and dug for the remote key.  She pressed the button and waved at Andy and then someone slammed into her from behind and bore her to the ground. </p><p>Fuck.  There they went again.  Blunt teeth dug into Nile’s neck and the double-whammy of cheesy body odor and sour breath assaulted her nose, but she bucked off her assailant before he got a good grip.  It helped that it was a small guy and not particularly bulky.  She twisted and gave him a good, hard smack with her elbow, which also reduced the number of teeth in his snapping mouth.  He spat out a few and visibly swallowed the rest.  Augh.  That was nightmare fodder for the next few months at least.  Nile had hang-ups about teeth.  She’d been thrilled to find out she regrew hers now like a shark.  </p><p>Nile scrambled up and dashed for the car.  Andy had gone for her labrys, which made sense on a crowded battlefield with bodies flying at you left and right.  Nile still wasn’t comfortable enough with edged weapons to wield one confidently, so she dove in and grabbed her guns.  Andy guarded her back while she stuffed her pockets with spare magazines.  The curved blades of her axe cut into flesh and bone with dull, squelching smacks that sounded so much more brutal than any movie sound effect.  </p><p>“Clear,” Nile called when she was fully armed and ready to rejoin the fight.  </p><p>“Keep the doctor alive,” Andy ordered, a little breathlessly.  “I’ll stall them at the choke point.” </p><p>The choke point, in this case, was the opening where the two open lanes of the highway led into the checkpoint.  The National Guard (or maybe the Army before them) had closed off most of the road with concrete barriers and cargo containers to create a narrow gateway into the city proper.  The horde must’ve come from the Boulder City area, following the highway, and this was where they’d hit their first real obstacle.  </p><p>A long line of cars had been trying to get into Las Vegas and an even longer line of cars was coming from the other side, desperately trying to <i>leave</i> Las Vegas, and this was where they met.  At least for the most part, the people in the cars had been smart enough to lock the doors and duck out of sight.  As long as there were National Guardsmen and the two members of the Old Guard to distract them, the afflicted didn’t pay the vehicles a whole lot of attention. </p><p>“Andy!” Nile yelled, but Andy was already gone, halfway to her chosen post already.  “Don’t you fucking get killed!” Nile bellowed after her. </p><p>Andy thrust the axe in the air briefly in what Nile chose to interpret as an affirmative, then she kept going.  Nile jumped on the trunk of their car to find her own objective and spotted the doctor huddled in a corner near the holding area, bravely defended by two guardsmen who seemed to be on their last legs.  </p><p>One final look at Andy showed her a dervish in black, spinning and lunging as she swung her double-bladed axe.  It was mesmerizing to watch.  Andy was in her element.  Intellectually, Nile had known her people had learned how to fight in a different time and age, but this was one of those moments that really drove home what that meant.  They came from a time before guns, when this had been the way infantry fought: in a messy knot of screaming people who had to be within arm’s reach to effectively kill each other, the dead and the dying underfoot, nothing but skill and brute strength between you and death.  </p><p>If anybody had a chance in hell of defending that opening, it was Andromache of Scythia.  </p><p>Nile whispered a prayer, kicked a cannibal in the face, and jumped back into the fray herself.</p><hr/><p>“I can’t believe you’re not dead,” Nile muttered several hours later, hands clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled force.  “I died <i>twice</i> and I wasn’t even in the thick of it.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Andy said, and was that… did she sound <i>disappointed</i>? </p><p>Nile was so outraged by the lackluster answer she almost stopped the car, but she didn’t want to risk the tires getting stuck in the sand.  She still spared a second to glare over at Andy, who was sitting in the passenger seat again, idly studying her own hands as she did sometimes when her joints ached or when she became aware of the daily wear and tear she still wasn’t used to.  Her skin was flecked with dried blood, but Nile knew for certain it wasn’t hers. </p><p>“Andy,” she said, trying to sound calm and not succeeding very well.  “Were you trying to die back there?  Was that supposed to be your heroic last stand?” </p><p>Andy bent and unbent her fingers, apparently incredibly fascinated by the slide of sinew over bone.  “It would’ve been a good way to go,” she said finally.  “A worthy cause.”  She paused, then shrugged.  “Well.  As worthy as any of them.”  </p><p>And the truth was, a part of Nile even agreed with that.  This was how she’d always imagined Andy would go out, if she ever actually did:  in a blaze of glory, taking down a shit ton of bad guys in the process, fierce and proud and beautiful as she’d always been.  The other part of her, on the other hand, was gravely offended by the idea of Andy leaving this world, leaving <i>them</i>, even a moment sooner than she absolutely had to.  Also, they’d had a vote.  Andy was supposed to die peacefully in her sleep, goddamn it.    </p><p>“Yeah, well,” Nile said eventually, lamely, “if you want to die, you probably shouldn’t kill all of your opponents first.”  </p><p>Andy slid a little lower in her seat and glared at her way-too-competent fingers.  “Yeah.”  </p><p>Nile steered the car around yet another cactus patch and glanced over again.  Oh god, Andy was pouting.  Andy was pouting, because she’d ruined her own suicide by being too badass to quit.  It was infuriating.  Also, five kinds of hilarious.  Nile looked back at the desert landscape before them and grinned to herself.  She decided to let it go.  If Andy didn’t manage to get herself killed when faced with a few dozen raving, semi-immortal cannibal-zombies, it was probably safe to say she was going to stick around for a while longer.  </p><p>“Which way now?” she asked, because she’d completely lost any sense of direction.  Vegas was somewhere to their right, she assumed, but she couldn’t see the highway they were aiming for anywhere.  </p><p>Everything had happened incredibly fast, after they’d wiped out the horde.  Before the remaining National Guardsmen or Dr. Pérez had realized it was over for the time being, Andy had grabbed Nile and dragged her to their car, collecting guns as she went.  She’d shoved Nile into the driver’s seat, pointed at the highway behind them, and told her to turn the car around and floor it.  So Nile had turned the car around and floored it.  After a mile or two, once they’d been safely out of sight, Andy had told her to drive over the embankment and into the desert on a rocky patch of ground and they’d been off-roading ever since.  Thank God Andy always picked sturdy cars with four-wheel drive.  </p><p>The dark head lifted for a moment so Andy could scan their surroundings, then one of the bloodstained fingers pointed slightly to the left.  “That way.” </p><p>“How do you <i>know</i> that shit?” Nile asked, impressed.  She didn’t doubt for a second Andy was right.  Andy would’ve been able to navigate a maze in the middle of a moonless night, blindfolded, and find her way out.  So would Nicky.  Joe, not so much, but he’d just wait for Nicky to find him.  Or climb the walls and cheat his way out from a better vantage point.  </p><p>“You’ll learn, too,” Andy promised darkly.  “You can’t always rely on that GPS crap.” </p><p>Damn it.  This was going to be Argentina all over again, Nile could tell.  </p><p>She couldn’t wait.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Art of Eating through the Zombie Apocalypse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Fort Dysentery, California</b>
</p><p>Fort Dysentery was located near Lake Crowley at what had to be the ass-end of California.  Nile didn’t know what she’d expected.  Anything from an old-timey fort right out of a Western movie to a repurposed military base, probably.  As it turned out, it was a fenced-in compound consisting of a small collection of adobe-style ranch homes built into the hills at strategic points, overlooking a private airstrip with a camouflaged hangar and a sturdy-looking radio tower.  All of the houses were equipped with solar panels that glinted in the rising sun.  A small herd of sheep grazed near the airstrip, a pair of big dogs watching over them.  </p><p>Nile breathed out a sigh of relief.  She hadn’t been sure she’d find the place by following Andy’s directions and it had been a harrowing drive through the dark in unfamiliar territory.  The road that led to the compound was little more than a dirt path that looked like a thousand other dead-end maintenance roads branching off the US-395 and Andy’s muttered description of “it’s just after the hare-shaped boulder” would’ve been a challenge even in broad daylight.  The hare-shaped boulder had resembled a lumpy roast chicken at best, but by that point Nile had been willing to follow pretty much anything vaguely animal-shaped.  </p><p>She glanced in the rearview mirror to check on Andy and found her still passed out in the backseat, surrounded by empty cans and food debris.  She was snoring lightly, sauce smeared around her mouth.  It could’ve been funny if it hadn’t been the aftermath of a few genuinely terrifying hours.  </p><p>Andy had been fine for a bit after they’d escaped the Vegas checkpoint, but eventually she’d paid the price for throwing herself into battle.  The hunger had come quickly when it had finally resurfaced and this time it hadn’t been satisfied by chocolate bars and Twinkies.  Nile was still stupidly grateful to her paranoid past self who had loaded the trunk with all kinds of emergency food when she’d had the chance: granola bars, beef sticks, peanut butter and crackers, canned beans, tuna, and spam.  </p><p>She’d stopped the car and tossed it all in the backseat for easy access and then Andy had gone through it in a frenzy, trying to find something to placate the yowls of her stomach.  The sounds coming from the back while Andy had fed would haunt Nile’s sleep for a good long while.  They’d had to take breaks several times throughout the night so Andy could disappear into the darkness to either relieve herself or throw up.  Nile didn’t know which, because Andy had only glared at her when she’d offered her assistance and Nile hadn’t been crazy enough to follow a wild-eyed Andy into the dark.  </p><p>As far as Nile could tell, Andy had focused almost exclusively on protein rich foods.  The sweets and the crackers were still there, but the cans were all open and empty and the floor was littered with beef stick wrappers.  The crusty, reddish smears around Andy’s mouth were probably peanut butter and tomato sauce, but it was way too easy to imagine her with far worse things painting her skin.  It was a stark reminder that if – <i>when</i> – Andy snapped, she would become something out of a nightmare.  It was a miracle that she’d held on for so long.  </p><p>Andy’s ability to hold the hunger at bay with processed food fed into Nile’s theory that even though Andy had become mortal, she still wasn’t a regular human being.  Copley had been convinced in the end that the source of this scourge had been the samples taken from Joe and Nicky in Merrick’s lab.  That would’ve explained why the immortals had such vastly different reactions to it than normal people.  Something was going on there, with the scars Joe and Nicky had carried for a while, and even with Andy’s muted reaction to the bite, but Nile was no scientist.  All she could do was speculate.  She’d had the whole night to spin theories.  It hadn’t led to any big revelations, but it had distracted her from Andy’s suffering and the grief that washed over her in waves.  Because that was another downside of driving at night: on the dark road, your ghosts walked beside you, no matter how fast you went.  </p><p>Would she have been able to save her family if she’d been there?  Probably not.  It had all happened extremely fast and she wouldn’t have expected her brother to become a threat out of nowhere.  She wouldn’t have known about the sodas.  Even if she’d been there when it happened, she’d have lost him and almost certainly her mom, too.  Then she’d be carrying a different kind of guilt.  She knew that, but it didn’t help.  Her family had been so small to begin with and now they were gone.  She’d never watch her mom grow old from afar.  She’d never see her brother fall in love, maybe start a family of his own.  There’d never be any Freeman children who were told the story of their aunty Nile who’d died fighting for her country.  There’d never be a future for any of them, only for Nile, who had more future than she knew what to do with.  It hurt.  It hurt like the <i>devil</i>.  </p><p><i>Keep busy</i>, Nile thought.  She tucked away the grief (not too deep, just away from the surface) and focused on the here and now.  Andy might not be family by blood, but she was family, and she was still alive and needed Nile.  </p><p>“Andy?” she called softly.  “We’re here.” </p><p>Andy snuffled and smacked her lips, but didn’t wake up.  Nile turned around in her seat to poke her carefully.  </p><p>“Andy?” </p><p>Those striking blue-gray eyes blinked open slowly.  A stab of worry pierced through Nile’s heart.  It wasn’t like Andy to take so long to regain consciousness and it wasn’t like her to look disoriented and fuzzy when she did.  Andy and Nicky both tended to go from asleep to awake in two seconds flat when there was no threat.  If there was, they’d be moving before their eyes were fully open.  </p><p>“Andy?  You okay?” </p><p>Andy looked around, then up at Nile.  She didn’t look happy at all.</p><p>“I’m hungry,” she said.</p><hr/><p>You had to hand it to Marcos and Esin Lopez, the caretakers at Fort Dysentery: they were both loyal and good in a crisis.  When they saw the condition Andy was in and all the food wrappers in the car, their first reaction wasn’t to run and lock themselves in their house, but to find solutions. </p><p>“Use the main house,” Esin said.  “We have plenty of meat in the freezer, I’ll fetch some.  We can throw it on the grill.  It won’t be perfect, but it should tide her over for a bit.” </p><p>“There’s panic rooms in every house,” Marcos added.  “If all else fails, we can put her in there until the others arrive.” </p><p>Andy’s mouth twitched up a little at “panic rooms”, which told Nile that the more appropriate expression probably would’ve been “holding cells”.  Either way, it gave them the option to contain Andy if she couldn’t control herself any longer.  </p><p>“You okay with that?” she asked, because damn if she was going to talk about Andy as if she wasn’t there.  </p><p>“Yeah,” Andy said quietly.  She pressed a hand to her stomach and sighed.  “You may have to slaughter a sheep, Marcos.” </p><p>Marcos shrugged and smiled at her.  “Then I’ll slaughter a sheep.  I may do that anyway, to celebrate your return.  It’s nice to see you again, Andreja.  It’s been too long.” </p><p>“Sorry it’s under these circumstances,” Andy said, but she was smiling for the first time since Vegas.  “It’s good to see you, too.”  </p><p>“Will you stay until this is over?” Marcos asked, sorrow heavy in his dark eyes.  </p><p>Andy’s smile faded a little.  “Looks like I will, anyway.  I don’t know about the others.  Things are pretty bad out there.”  </p><p>“Do you think they’ll find a cure?” </p><p>“Maybe.”  Andy wiped a hand across her mouth and stared at the crumbly, red-stained food residue on her fingers pensively.  “Probably not soon enough to help anybody who’s affected now.”  </p><p>Marcos swallowed thickly.  He eyed the smears on Andy’s fingers, then lifted his gaze to her face and straightened up, bracing himself.  “How long, do you think?” </p><p>“I don’t know.”  Andy glanced at Nile, a barely noticeably frown on her face.  “I suppose we’ll see.” </p><p>She should’ve gone mad already, Nile realized with a start.  The information on how fast people lost their minds once they’d been bitten varied, but both what they’d heard on the radio and what Booker had reported put the average transformation span of bite to berserker at anywhere between ten minutes to ten hours.  Andy was way overdue.  Hard to tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but Nile decided to take what she could get.  She did not want to be the one who had to put down Andromache of Scythia.  </p><p>“How about we take a shower, eat some steaks, and wait for Joe and Nicky?” she proposed, because Andy was exhausted and sick and Marcos was starting to look increasingly lost.  “If everything went fine, they should arrive soon-ish.” </p><p>“Nothing ever goes fine,” Andy grumbled, but she’d visibly perked up at the mention of a shower, so Nile took her pessimism with a grain of salt.  </p><p>“I’ll help Esin prep the grill,” Marcos said, jumping at the chance to make himself useful.  </p><p>Nile fished her phone out of her pocket.  No new messages.  “I’ll update the others.”  </p><p>“I’ll–” Andy stopped and looked down on her stained shirt.  She sighed.  “Guess I’ll take that shower.”  </p><p>Good plan.</p><hr/><p>Barbecued lamb, squash, and microwaved bean burritos for breakfast was a bit of a weird experience, but Nile had been with the Old Guard long enough that she was used to weird.  Andy ate way too much meat, which was apparently just enough, judging by how it eased the lines of strain around her eyes.  She even joined the conversation after a while, mostly trying to downplay how dangerous it had been to save Esin from the sex traffickers who’d picked her from the stream of refugees moving to Europe from Syria and Afghanistan and sold her to a Mexican drug baron.  </p><p>Nile was riveted by the story even though she’d been part of Andy’s little army of four for several years now and had taken part in plenty of rescue missions and surgical strikes.  She’d been aware of the effect they had on the bigger picture thanks to Copley’s meticulous documentation, but this was the first time she heard first-hand the impact the Old Guard had had on one specific life.  Two, actually, because Marcos had been a tiny cog in the vast machinery of the drug lord’s operation at the time, until he’d been expertly picked and flipped by Joe.  </p><p>“I can never go back to Mexico,” he said, not without a certain level of pride.  He smiled at Esin, still dopey with love almost twenty years in, and took her hand.  “My home is with Esin now.” </p><p>Esin laughed and blushed and didn’t contradict him.  She did, however, slide another steak on Andy’s plate and nudged the salsa closer.  Her smile softened when Andy dug in with a grunt of pleasure.  “It is a good life,” she said, half to Nile, but mostly to Andy.  “This place has soothed our souls.  We are happy here.” </p><p>Andy squirmed a bit.  “That’s good.”  She waved a hand at the entire area.  “You’re doing a good job.  Everything looks… good.”  </p><p>“We liked the honey soap,” Nile jumped in.  Andy threw her a grateful look and focused on her steak again.  “It smelled very nice.” </p><p>“Oh, I make it myself,” Esin said, pleased with the compliment, and readily went on to talk about her favorite projects.  </p><p>After the meal, Marcos hooked up two hammocks for them on the patio of the main house and Andy and Nile slept in the sun for a few hours, swaying gently back and forth in the warm breeze.  </p><p>It was the sound of a plane engine that woke them shortly before noon.  Nile rubbed the sleep-crusts from her eyes and looked around for Andy automatically.  She half expected her to be up and about already, because Andy mostly survived on catnaps and coffee during crises, but Andy was barely peeking out of her hammock, bleary-eyed and rumpled.  </p><p>“’zat Jo’Nicky?” she mumbled.  </p><p>Nile squinted until she spotted a growing dot in the sky that seemed to be headed for the airstrip below.  She glanced at her watch.  “It better be,” she said.  “If it’s not them or Booker, we got trouble.” </p><p>“Check the bedroom closet,” Andy said, sounding more awake, but still too tired.  “The code is one-six-one-two-three.” </p><p>Nile rolled out of her hammock with an undeniable lack of grace and hurried into the house.  The back of the bedroom closet turned out to be a reinforced door with a keypad.  When she typed in the code, it swung open to reveal a small armory.  Cut and thrust weapons to the left, firearms and ammo to the right, explosives in the back.  One of the axes looked old, but must’ve been a new addition, because it was decorated with a big, red bow.  Nile looked closer.  There was a card, too, written in Joe’s flowing handwriting: <i>Rescued your precious.  You’re welcome. Love, Joe and Nicky</i> </p><p>When presented with the axe, bow and all, Andy smiled wanly.  “It was in a private collection in Portugal,” she explained, but she didn’t swing the axe in one of those deadly, beautiful patterns she preferred.  Did she look thinner?  It was hard to tell, because Nile was always around her, but Nile thought that maybe she did.  It should’ve been impossible, because Andy had eaten half a dozen thick steaks a few hours before and been snacking near constantly since she’d been bitten, but yes.  She was thinner.  Her usually pale cheeks had a flush to them Nile didn’t like either, because it looked like a fever-flush more than a sunburn.  </p><p>“How are you doing?” she asked, aiming for casual.  </p><p>Andy put down the axe and reached for the Sig Sauer instead.  She checked the magazine, made sure the safety was on, and cracked her neck.  The pop sounded ghastly, but not nearly as bad as when the neck had been broken first.  Nile hated that she knew that.  Andy noticed her wince and smiled thinly.  “I’m still here.” </p><p>“You hungry?” </p><p>“I could eat a horse.”  </p><p>Nile nodded sternly.  “And that’s exactly why we stuck to the car.” </p><p>That startled a laugh out of Andy.  Nile grinned to herself.  </p><p>Yep.  Still there.</p><hr/><p>Joe and Nicky were looking a little rough.  Healthy enough, to Nile’s critical eye, but Jesus Christ, that was a lot of dried blood all over them.  Joe was also doing that thing where he was simultaneously scanning their surroundings for any sign of an ambush and trying to make himself bigger at the same time to hide Nicky behind him.  It was both kind of sweet and hilarious, because not only was he barely taller than Nicky when they were standing right next to each other, they were also walking down the plane’s fold-out stairs, Joe first, which was putting Nicky at a higher level by default.  </p><p>A quick glance over at Andy confirmed that Andy had noticed it, too, and was torn between being charmed and exasperated.  It was a common feeling when one or both of those two kicked into overprotective mode.  This time, though, there was something more in Andy’s eyes.  It was a complex mix of emotion, but Nile recognized love and sadness more than anything.  She’d seen that look before, less obvious, at several points during the past years.  After a big fight, when the immortals were hopped up on adrenaline and relief.  In quiet moments when Andy was watching them interact, thinking herself unobserved.  It was the expression of someone looking in from the outside, soaking up memories, preparing to leave.  </p><p>And just like that, Joe’s futile attempt to puff up to twice his size to shield Nicky wasn’t so funny anymore, because at the base of it lay the same anticipation of inevitable loss that was clouding Andy’s old, old eyes.  Sometimes, the level of devotion, the amount of <i>history</i> between these people, still stunned Nile and made her miss her own family terribly.  She’d come to love her friends dearly, but she’d been immortal for barely the blink of an eye.  She was still very much Nile Freeman, daughter of Zuri, sister of Daniel.  Her new life was strange and fantastical and awesome, but she still woke sometimes expecting it to have been a dream.  Andy, Joe, and Nicky were amazing, but despite their flaws and vulnerabilities, they also still seemed larger than life.  They were the Old Guard.  Nile was just Nile.  She loved them, but not as much as they loved each other.  She simply wasn’t there yet.  </p><p>She watched Joe pick up Andy and hug her so hard she flailed and laughed and cussed him out, and she missed her mom and her brother so much it brought tears to her eyes.  Would she ever love Joe and Nicky as much as Andy did?  As much as she’d loved her own family?  She couldn’t imagine it.  She figured it was going to happen at some point, but right now, she wanted her <i>mama</i>.  She wanted <i>Danny</i>.  She wanted her family back.  </p><p>“Nile?” </p><p>The soft enquiry made her look up and through a film of tears she saw Nicky, tall and broad, covered in dry blood and generally looking like he’d crossed hell on a meat grinder, studying her with worried eyes.  She sniffled and sudden understanding washed over him.  </p><p>“Oh.  Of course.  I’m so sorry, Nile,” he said quietly, and that was all it took.  </p><p>From one second to the next, Nile was clinging to Nicky’s t-shirt and crying her eyes out.  She was honestly surprised at herself.  She’d been mostly fine.  She’d wept when she’d found out, but after that, the grief had been manageable.  Never really gone, of course, but more of a background noise.  But the compassion threaded through Nicky’s gentle tone had flipped a switch in her.  </p><p>The world was going to shit.  Her mom was gone, killed by Danny.  Danny was gone, shot by a panicked neighbor.  Even Copley was gone.  That kind, sorrowful man who’d given them so much hope and encouragement had killed himself.  Andy was going to go insane.  They were probably going to have to kill her.  Then Andy, her touchstone in all this madness, would be gone, too.  </p><p>Everything was changing again, when she’d barely gotten used to a new life and new relationships.  She wanted it to stop.  She didn’t want to be immortal anymore.  She didn’t want anybody else to die.  She wanted to go <i>home</i>.  She wanted to hug Mr. Carrothop, her one-eyed plush bunny, and curl up in her mother’s lap until the world made sense again.  </p><p>But she couldn’t, because everybody she truly loved was dead and the only people she had left were a bunch of way-too-well-adjusted immortal do-gooders with codependency issues and a body count too horrifying to contemplate.  </p><p>At some point, Nile realized she was surrounded by warmth and swaying slowly back and forth.  It wasn’t only Nicky hugging her.  Joe was plastered to her back and Andy was stroking her head.  They were talking to her in low, soothing voices, each of them in a different language.  Nile didn’t understand a single word, but she understood the affection and comfort she was offered.  She understood that no matter how alone she felt at the moment, she had been made part of their family.  It wasn’t <i>her</i> family, not yet, but it was somewhere to belong.  </p><p>“I’m okay,” she claimed.  It was very much a lie, even on the surface level.  Her entire face was hot and swollen.  She had a stuffy nose from all the snot she hadn’t smeared into poor Nicky’s shirt and even her bones felt fragile.  One wrong move and she was going to burst into tears all over again.  </p><p>Naturally, Andy called her on it.  “You’re not okay.”  </p><p>“But you <i>will be</i>,” Joe added immediately.  </p><p>He must’ve given Andy one hell of a quelling glare, because their fierce leader backpedaled hastily.  “I meant, you don’t have to pretend with us, Nile.  It’s all right to not be okay.” </p><p>The blatant hypocrisy in that statement was enough to make Nile pull her face away from the soaked fabric she’d been hiding in and stare at her.  Andy gave her a hopeful smile from the land of denial and offered her what was clearly a used napkin.  </p><p>Old as dirt and self-aware as a rock.  </p><p>Also, grandma-gross sometimes. </p><p>Nile chuckled wetly and took the crumpled piece of nasty.  If she couldn’t get off this ride, she might as well buckle up and settle in for the long haul.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>The Ass-End of California<br/>(according to Booker and Quynh)</b>
</p><p>“I said I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Uh-huh.”  </p><p>“It looked like a flat stretch of land.  How was I supposed to tell there was a ditch there?” </p><p>Quynh stopped, the better to glare at him.  “You could’ve looked out the goddamn window instead of at the stupid instruments!” </p><p>Well, that was just unfair.  “I was doing a field landing <i>in the dark</i>.  When you can’t see shit, you have to go by your instruments.”</p><p>“When you don’t look out of the damn window, you plant your plane in a ditch and break your passenger’s everything.”</p><p>“You would’ve broken less things if you’d listened to me and strapped in.” </p><p>“<i>You</i> weren’t strapped in either!” </p><p>“And note how I broke my everything, too?” Booker gesticulated wildly, indicating the dried blood staining his last clean shirt.  “You don’t hear me complaining.” </p><p>Quynh deflated a bit.  She shuffled from one foot to the other, then crossed her arms and muttered something unintelligible.  </p><p>“What?” Booker asked, exasperated.  He’d been dead not too long ago.  He was tired, his feet hurt, and he wasn’t one-hundred percent sure he was reading the GPS right, so he was uncomfortably aware that they might be lost.  He wasn’t in the mood to be bullied.  </p><p>“I <i>said</i>, I really liked this shirt,” Quynh repeated, sullenly.  She tugged on the hem of her blood-spattered overshirt and pulled up her shoulders defensively.  Quynh preferred not to admit that she did occasionally care for things.  </p><p>Booker opened his mouth and closed it again.  It felt kind of mean to draw attention to the fact that the shirt in question was actually <i>his</i> shirt, or had been, before Quynh had pilfered it.  Also, it had been a nice shirt, comfortably worn in and soft.  It wasn’t the worst reason to be bitchy.  </p><p>“We’ll get you a new one,” he said, lamely.  </p><p>Quynh sighed and started walking again.  “It won’t be the same.” </p><p>Booker fell in step beside her and checked his GPS again.  Bless Nicky’s paranoid little heart for stocking their planes with all sorts of nifty survival gear.  Wasn’t his fault that Booker hadn’t used the damn thing since the initial training.  “I can wear it for a while first, if you want.  Break it in for you.”  </p><p>They walked in silence for a few long minutes before the tense line of Quynh’s shoulders relaxed and she cleared her throat.  “I would like that.”  </p><p>It hit Booker, as it did every now and then, with a sense of warm wonder, that Quynh <i>liked</i> him.  It wasn’t only convenience that held her by his side, or the pact they had made regarding the state of their respective mental health.  She’d approached him first because he’d been the easiest to find and the closest to her location at the time.  She’d listened to him because his splintered edges had found echoes in hers, and, he suspected, because he’d been her only companion for the final two hundred years of her imprisonment, if only in dreams.  But she stayed because she enjoyed his company and Booker loved her for it, because God knew <i>he</i> didn’t even enjoy his own company most of the time.  </p><p>“You know I love you, right?” he said, because if his past had taught him anything, it was that he assumed too much and often didn’t think to say the really important things out loud until it was too late.  </p><p>Quynh kept walking.  “I know.” </p><p>Well, good.  He wasn’t sure he said it often enough.  He was trying very hard to be more open about his emotions, and he knew Quynh needed to hear it, even if she rarely said it back, because he was so much better at this therapy thing than she was.  Though, to be fair, she’d gone into it with even more baggage than he had and had come a long way since that day in his Parisian apartment.  Also, in the grand scheme of things, containing one’s homicidal urges was more important than expressing positive sentiments verbally.  Booker knew she cared for him, and that was more than enough.  </p><p>He nodded contentedly and eyed the hills in front of them.  He thought he recognized the shape of the ridges, maybe, but that could’ve been wishful thinking.  He didn’t have Nicky’s innate sense of direction or Andy’s uncanny ability to always know where the hell she was and how to get to pretty much anywhere, but right now he was all they had.  If he left this to Quynh, they’d end up in Death Valley and then they’d keep wandering in circles there until someone found their sorry asses and either tried to ship them to a quarantine zone or eat them.  </p><p>“Should we tell the others about the bone-crawlers?” Quynh asked suddenly, blissfully unaware of Booker’s unkind thoughts about her abilities.  </p><p>He didn’t have to ask what she meant, even though it was a made-up term she hadn’t used before.  It was a pretty apt description.  In a way, the bone-crawlers were the reason why they were hiking through the desert right now instead of landing their nice, comfortable plane on nice, smooth tarmac on the other side of those hills.  Well.  If those were the right hills.  Which they better be, because Quynh was going to flat-out murder him if he cost her this final chance to see Andy before she died.  </p><p>The jet had only barely made the journey across the Atlantic, mostly because a steady tailwind had helped carry them across.  When Booker had refueled in New Brunswick, the tanks had been empty, a fact that he had chosen not to share with Quynh.  She’d been nervous enough about crossing an ocean again, she hadn’t needed to know that they’d need perfect conditions and a very levelheaded pilot to do so successfully.  Booker had done the math before he’d taken off.  He’d checked the weather conditions and the plane’s specifications and he’d decided to take a calculated risk.  If he hadn’t believed they had a fair chance of making it, he wouldn’t have taken off.  Quynh’s sanity was worth more than achieving closure with Andy.  </p><p>He hadn’t dared pull that stunt again, though, so he’d included another fuel stop in his flight plan.  Nicky’s emergency list (taped to the bottom of the co-pilot seat) included a local airport near Rochester, Minnesota, which was not quite halfway to their destination.  So that’s where they’d gone.  And that’s where they’d met the creatures Quynh had aptly dubbed bone-crawlers.  </p><p>Booker still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened at that place.  It must’ve gone down early, because there hadn’t been a soul left alive, but somebody had closed the gates before they’d either died or lost their mind and it had trapped over a dozen infected people inside.  They hadn’t been able to get past the game fence.  They hadn’t been able to feed.  Maybe they had killed some of their own, but for whatever reason, a few of them hadn’t attacked each other.  They’d starved, but they hadn’t died.  Booker and Quynh had stumbled over them in one of the hangars, where they’d been looking for the refueller truck.  </p><p>The crawlers had come out from behind a bunch of equipment cabinets, where they must’ve curled up, waiting for the end.  None of them had been able to walk anymore, but they’d scuttled after Booker and Quynh, mewling and groaning and ravenous.  Their bodies must’ve tried to eat themselves and heal themselves in a vicious circle and without anything to fuel the process they’d been reduced to withered, shrunken skeletons covered in sallow, papery skin.  They couldn’t seem to die but weren’t quite alive either.  The only thing they’d known had been that they were <i>hungry</i> and Booker and Quynh were edible.  </p><p>It hadn’t even really been a fight.  It had been a mercy killing that had been surprisingly hard to execute, because the crawlers had been invigorated by their appearance and they’d thrown themselves at the immortals in a frenzied mass of limbs.  They’d clung.  They’d twisted.  They’d squirmed and surged forward like snakes, trying to bury their teeth in living flesh.  Booker had lost his axe when he’d hit a torso instead of a head and the body had disappeared in the coiling knot of limbs.  He’d been forced to grab a heavy monkey wrench from one of the cabinets and bludgeon them to death.  It had not been fun.  He hadn’t had the stomach to wade into the mess afterwards and find his axe again, so he’d just kept the wrench.  </p><p>The experience had left both him and Quynh shaken and covered in gore.  To add insult to injury, the refueller truck had been empty and someone had found Nicky’s fuel reserve.  The only plane left on the premises was an old Cessna with a busted engine and an empty tank.  Good for the people who’d managed to flee the area, bad for Booker and Quynh.  They’d still almost made it to their destination.  Almost.  </p><p>“Maybe we shouldn’t lead with that,” Booker decided.  </p><p>“Yeah.”  Quynh picked sadly at her ruined shirt.  “Maybe not.”</p><hr/><p>They crossed the ridge shortly before nightfall.  The low-hanging sun was in their eyes, so it took Booker a few seconds to adjust and scan the slopes for the adobe buildings he dearly hoped were down there.  In the end, Quynh spotted them first.  </p><p>“There,” she said, and pointed at the western side of the valley.  “Is that it?” </p><p>Booker squinted and, like in a puzzle picture, shapes started to emerge from the rugged brown-and-green landscape.  Airstrip, caretakers’ house, three solar-paneled houses built into the hillside.  The sheep were new.  </p><p>“Yes,” he sighed.  He slumped with relief.  Despite the unplanned field landing (it hadn’t been a crash landing, goddamn it, they hadn’t hit that damn ditch until the very end) they’d made the rendezvous with only a few hours delay.  Andy should’ve snapped by now, but Andy should’ve been long gone the last time he’d texted with Nicky and she’d still been hanging in there.  Maybe it took longer with some people.  Maybe it was because she’d been immortal not so long ago.  As long as she held on, Booker didn’t need to know why.  </p><p>On his left, Quynh sucked in a sharp breath.  “I see her.” </p><p>“What?  Where?”  Booker shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the buildings again until he spotted them on the porch of the main house.  They’d been sitting, but one of them must’ve been on watch, because one of the small figures on the other end of the valley rose and stepped out of the shadow to look at him and Quynh.  </p><p>Booker raised a tentative arm in greeting.  The figure didn’t react, which told him they hadn’t been identified yet.  Too far away.  Also, they were expecting Booker on his own, flying a plane, and not Booker on foot, accompanied by… oh.  Yeah.  He glanced over at Quynh.  Quynh’s face was completely expressionless, which told him she was stressed out to an insane degree.  This was exactly why he’d originally intended to ease them all into this.  Maybe call Nile first, then include Nicky, the less explosive half of the warrior woobies.  Nicky would’ve known how to break the news to Joe and then they could’ve all eased Andy into it.  That would’ve given Quynh more time to get used to the idea, too.  </p><p>Murphy’s law was a bitch. </p><p>“All right,” Booker muttered and started walking again.  “Remember:  no murder.” </p><p>Quynh fell in step with him, so close that her arm brushed against his when she stepped over a rock.  “Maybe a little murder.” </p><p>“Quynh, I swear to God, I will lock you in a room with Dr. Zimmermann again.” </p><p>“Relax.  I was kidding.”  Quynh bumped against him affectionately.  “No murder.”  </p><p>This woman was going to be the death of him.  The big, final one.  He could tell.  He told her as much, which made her chuckle.  Well.  It was a step up from the death mask face.  </p><p>“Do you think Dr. Zimmermann’s still alive?” she asked as they made their way down the hill toward the quartet waiting for them on the other side of the valley.  </p><p>“I don’t know.”  Booker didn’t like to think about it either.  She better be alive and well.  The thought of breaking in another therapist gave him hives.  “I hope so.” </p><p>“Me, too,” Quynh admitted.  “I’m going to need her after this.” </p><p>“You and me both,” Booker said.  “I’d kill for a bottle of Cognac right now.” </p><p>“Think about something else.”  </p><p>Booker snorted rudely.  </p><p>They were about halfway down the hill when one of the four people on the other side of the valley suddenly took a step forward and gave off hunting dog vibes. </p><p>“I think Nicky might’ve just recognized us,” Booker noted, still squinting a bit.  From a tactical perspective, their approach was a nightmare.  </p><p>Quynh gave him the side-eye.  “How can you tell that’s Nicky?” </p><p>“Has to be Nicky,” Booker explained.  “There’s a reason he’s the sniper.  Fucker probably recognized your walk or something.” </p><p>“Well, he sure didn’t recognize my silhouette,” Quynh muttered, and she was probably right about that.  She doubtless looked a lot different in modern clothes and with Booker’s shirt obscuring her shape and her hair braided back, it would’ve been difficult to tell from afar whether she was a woman or a man.  </p><p>But then, that’s what Nicky did.  He watched.  He picked out patterns.  He knew precisely how the people he loved moved and held themselves so he wouldn’t accidentally shoot them on a crowded battlefield while he picked off their enemies.  Even in situations where they were actively trying to blend in, Nicky always spotted them.  It was a bit creepy, to be honest.   </p><p>“Jig’s up,” Booker breathed, when the group started to move toward them.  “Here they come.” </p><p>“I still don’t know what to say,” Quynh whispered, a faint trace of panic in her voice.  </p><p>“Wing it.”</p><p>Quynh lashed out with one leg to trip him, but Booker had seen that coming and hopped away with a squawk and a laugh.  And if that laugh held a bit of a hysterical edge, well, fuck you, he was stressed out, too.  </p><p>“What if she <i>cries</i>?” </p><p>Booker watched the others approach.  They were definitely going slower than usual, clustered around Andy, who was picking her way down the slope carefully.  Not doing so hot, apparently, but evidently not in the biting-people’s-face-off stage yet.  </p><p>“If Andy cries, we’re both gonna be bawling, too,” he said, because that was the truth and nothing but the truth.  They might’ve all been warrior types, but they were <i>complex</i> warrior types.  They had <i>feelings</i>.  Booker himself was still in the process of accepting that, but fact was, he was close to tearing up already and they still had a good ten minutes to go until contact.  “So will Nicky and Joe.  We’ll all trigger each other.  Just prepare for lots of tears and snot.” </p><p>“I’m not good with tears and snot.”  Quynh sounded increasingly agitated.  </p><p>Booker rummaged through his pockets and unearthed a crumpled package of tissues, all that was left from his stash.  He fished out one and handed over the rest.  “Here.”  </p><p>Quynh stared so hard at the tissues she almost tripped over a cactus.  She caught herself, then strode on with her head held high, pretending she’d done that on purpose, and snatched the package out of Booker’s hand.  “You’re not getting those back.” </p><p>“I know,” Booker said ruefully, and tucked the one tissue he’d saved for himself into his jeans pocket for easy access.  By the time Quynh was through with them, he wasn’t going to <i>want</i> those tissues back, that much was certain.  </p><p>“You know what else?”  Quynh reached down to unbuckle her sword belt.  She swore under her breath when it proved stubborn.  Booker had no idea what language she was using, but cursing, he’d learned, was pretty easily identifiable by tone.  Finally, the buckle gave and she yanked off belt and scabbard and thrust the whole kit and caboodle at him.  “Take it,” she ordered.  “Or I’m probably gonna stab someone just because of nerves.” </p><p>Good point.  Booker grabbed the weapon and made sure to carry it on the far side from Quynh so as not to tempt her.  “You’ll do fine,” he said.  It could’ve sounded more convincing, but Quynh breathed out noisily and nodded anyway.  </p><p>“Okay.  Yes.  No murder.” </p><p>“No murder.”</p><hr/><p>Andy looked like death warmed over.  Her eyes were overflowing and she was leaning heavily on Joe, but at the end, she pushed off and ran for them, gaze fixed on Quynh.</p><p>“Quynh!” she gasped, and before anybody could do anything, she had smashed into Quynh and was hugging her desperately. </p><p>Quynh squeaked, surprised and overwhelmed, but clung back instinctively. </p><p>It could’ve been such a touching moment.</p><p>Such a beautiful reunion. </p><p>All of them were watching and tearing up as Booker had predicted, and Nile was aww-ing, and Joe was sniffling, and then– </p><p>–and then Quynh suddenly started to scream and struggle and Andy was growling and that whole sweet, loving scene turned into something right out of a horror movie.  </p><p>Blood spattered across Booker’s face and he reared back reflexively.  Andy had buried her teeth in Quynh’s throat and was tearing and ripping at it like an animal.  Quynh was fighting her, but they were too close for her to gain the leverage she needed, because Andy was taller than her, heavier, and so very, very determined.  </p><p><i>This was <b>not</b> how that was supposed to go</i>, Booker thought wildly.  He grabbed at Andy, tried to pull her away, and then Joe and Nicky were there, helping, but Andy was holding on to Quynh as though her life depended on it.  And she kept biting and digging deeper.  Quynh’s eyes were rolling back in their sockets as shock and blood loss kicked in.  Booker realized she was mouthing one word, over and over.  It took him a second to get it.  </p><p>
  <i>sword sword sword…</i>
</p><p>Oh. </p><p><i>Fuck.</i> </p><p>The sword slid free from its scabbard with the familiar whisper of steel against wood.  Joe and Nicky, bless them, were as attuned to the sound as he was and immediately moved out of the way.  </p><p>“No!” Nile screamed, but she made no move to stop him and neither did Joe and Nicky.  </p><p>The blade pierced Andy’s back between the shoulder blades and kept going.  A killing blow from this angle depended on skill and strength.  It was easy to mess up.  If Booker had thought about it, he might’ve hesitated, but his only consideration in that moment was that he didn’t want them to suffer, either of them, so he went for the heart and put his full weight into it to make it fast.  He used enough force that the sword passed right through Andy and Quynh both, impaling them, pinning them together.  </p><p>Andy gasped and threw back her head.  A chunk of Quynh’s flesh slid from her mouth.  She’d already <i>swallowed</i> some of it, he realized with a queasy roll of his stomach.  Quynh stared at her, transfixed, one hand clutching Andy’s arm to steady herself, the other flapping weakly, trying to reach for the wound in her throat or maybe the wound in her chest.  </p><p>The final rays of sunlight seeped over the mountain ridge behind them and bathed the entire scene in red.   The veil of color threw everything in stark relief:  the sudden softening of Andy’s distorted face, the disbelief in Quynh’s, the way their bodies stood intertwined, held together by the blade that was killing them.  Nile’s eyes were wide with horror.  Nicky’s arm was stretched out, hand barely touching Andy where he’d pushed her to correct the angle and assist in Booker’s <i>coup de grace</i>.  Joe simply looked heartbroken.  </p><p>Booker let go of the handle and staggered back, gaze fixed on the two women he loved more than anything in life.  Both had saved him, in their own way, had helped shape him, and now he’d killed them.  Quynh might wake up after this.  Andy wouldn’t.  His hands shook.  No matter how the story went, somehow, Sebastien Le Livre always ended up as the villain.  </p><p>Andy’s knees buckled.  She would’ve sunk to the ground, but Quynh was still standing, refusing to fold even as the life bled out of her.  They swayed, sword grinding against their insides, and shuddered harshly.  Quynh grunted, a deep, guttural moan of pain.  The sound kicked Booker out of his shock-paralysis.  He stepped in to brace them and ease them to the ground.  Nicky joined him, taking some of the weight.  They laid them down carefully on their sides and by the time they let go of them, they were gone.  Andy’s eyes were mostly closed, her mouth still hanging open.  She looked peaceful.  Quynh’s eyes were open, fixed in death.  She did not look peaceful.  She looked furious.  </p><p>What a goddamn mess. </p><p>Booker’s fingers trembled hard when he wrapped them around the hilt of the sword again and pulled.  The blade slid out easily, freeing Andy and Quynh.  Andy’s body rolled onto her back and so did Quynh’s.  Their hands still touched.  They could’ve been just lying there, gazing at the clouds.  If you looked past the gore, that was.  And the empty eyes.  </p><p>This was not how it had been supposed to go at all.  There should’ve been time for conversation, for saying goodbye, for their weird little family to be reunited one last time.  There should’ve been closure.  And then, when Andy lost her grip, one of her loved ones should’ve taken her across gently, quick and painless.  </p><p>Booker dropped the weapon and sat down hard.  He waited for the grief, but all he felt was numb.  Nothing there.  All hollowed out and scraped empty.  He was barely aware when Nicky plopped down next to him and then Nile curled up against him from the other side.  Only Joe remained standing, one hand over his mouth, his cheeks wet with tears.  </p><p>It was over.</p><hr/><p>And that’s how Andromache of Scythia died.  Pinned to her oldest friend, blood in her mouth, under the open sky.  </p><p>It wasn’t the death she had imagined, but it was better than a lot of the deaths she had lived through.  </p><p>It was an end. </p><p>Finally.</p><hr/><p>It was dark when Quynh revived with a gasp and a cough.  She jackknifed up, already reaching for a weapon, and looked around wildly when she didn’t find one.  </p><p>“It’s all right,” Booker said from the chair next to her bed.  “You’re safe.” </p><p>Quynh coughed again and pulled a face.  “Andy?” she croaked.  </p><p>Booker handed her a glass of water.  “Still dead.  The others are with her.”  </p><p><i>Saying goodbye</i>, he didn’t say.  <i>Building her pyre</i>, he didn’t say either.  There was a lot he didn’t say, because his throat felt as dried out and swollen as Quynh’s probably did.  She still wasn’t entirely healed.  There was a ring of thick scar tissue where Andy’s teeth had dug in.  As for Booker, he kept the screams safely tucked away below his larynx and every time they pushed up, trying to get out, he swallowed them down again.  He’d killed Andy.  Not even a “Hello” first.  No goodbye.  He wanted to mourn, but he couldn’t.  He didn’t deserve it. </p><p>Quynh gulped down about half the water, then leaned back against the wall and tucked in her limbs until she was sitting cross-legged on the mattress, watching him.  “You look like shit,” she noted eventually.  </p><p>Andy looked worse.  Andy looked dead.  </p><p>Booker shrugged and stared down at his hands, clasped loosely in his lap.  He’d washed off the blood, but it still clung to his skin, sticky and warm.  He couldn’t see it, but he felt it.  Might not be so bad once he pickled himself in alcohol, but he hadn’t found the strength yet to get up and go looking for the crate of tequila he’d stashed in one of the houses.  One thing after the other.  Right now, he had to be there for Quynh, but she’d join the others soon enough and he’d go back into exile.  Once he was on his own, he’d try killing himself with booze again.  Maybe he hadn’t been persistent enough before.  Maybe, if he died of alcohol poisoning every day for a decade or so, it’d stick.  Hope springs eternal. </p><p>“You’re spiraling again,” Quynh said.  No accusation, just a statement.  </p><p>Well, obviously.  “I killed Andy.” </p><p>“Yes, you did,” Quynh confirmed, unfazed.  “Has anyone thanked you for that yet?” </p><p>Booker’s head twitched up, incredulous.  “What?” </p><p>“Somebody had to do it.”  Quynh rubbed her throat and grimaced.  “It’s not like this came as a total surprise.  Thanks, by the way.  That was about as horrible as I imagined.” </p><p>She was acting so <i>normal</i>, when Booker’s entire world had crashed and burned.  “It shouldn’t have been me,” he said, helplessly.  </p><p>“No,” Quynh agreed.  She wasn’t unaffected, he could tell, but her gaze remained steady.  Holding on to their established pattern that if one of them fell apart, the other had to keep it together.  “It should’ve been <i>me</i>.  I was prepared for it.  But, let’s face it, neither of us expected her to go for my throat five seconds after impact.”  </p><p>Booker swallowed hard.  “She was so happy to see you.”</p><p>“Yes, it was very touching.”  Quynh pointed at her neck.  “Right until she latched on to my jugular.”</p><p>“That wasn’t her fault.” </p><p>Quynh rolled her eyes.  “I’m not saying it was, I’m saying it took the decision out of our hands.  It was a shit situation.  You did what you had to do.  The others should be grateful somebody had the guts to do what was necessary.” </p><p>“We are.” </p><p>Booker jumped at the new voice.  His boots tapped out a hectic drumroll as his body repositioned him so he faced the potential threat.  Thump-thump-<i>thump</i>.  Fuck, no gun.  He flailed for his axe, but of course, no axe either.  Some guard he was.  Thank God it was only Nicky, looking tired and sad, but still giving him a tentative smile.  </p><p>“Thank you, Book.  You did the right thing.”  He grimaced slightly.  “The only thing.”</p><p>Of all of them, Nicky was worst with languages.  He could read and write and understand a good dozen of them, but he couldn’t shake the Italian accent to save his life.  Or anyone else’s life, according to Andy, who had dirt on everyone.  (<i>Had</i> had dirt on everyone.  Fuck.)  Booker hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.  He and Nicky had texted some since Booker’s exile, and Nicky had called him on his birthdays, but it was different to have him there in person again.  </p><p>“Hey, Nicolo,” Quynh said from the bed.  Her eyes had narrowed a bit and she had tensed up subtly, but Booker was happy to note she didn’t look like she was about to launch herself at Nicky to try and murder him.  Not that it’d be a “try”.  </p><p>Nicky met her stare with a careful smile.  He kept his distance.  Smart man.  “Hello, Quynh.  It is good to see you.” </p><p>Quynh tilted her head.  It could’ve looked cute, but it really, really didn’t.  There was a certain raptor quality to the gesture that would’ve made a lesser man sweat bullets.  She studied Nicky for a minute or two, unsmiling.  He shifted a bit under her scrutiny, but he didn’t move from his position and he didn’t say anything.  Didn’t ask how she’d gotten out of the coffin.  Didn’t apologize for leaving her down there.  He simply waited for her to decide how to approach the situation.    </p><p>After a small eternity, Quynh blinked slowly.  “It’s good to see you, too,” she decided.  “You keep that distance, though.  And make sure the others do as well.” </p><p>Nicky nodded easily.  “What else do you need from us?” </p><p>Quynh thought about it.  “No questions.  No bullying Booker, I like him.  He’s my emotional support grump.”  </p><p>The look that flashed over Nicky’s face at that was almost enough to distract Booker from his despair.  They all changed with the times, but usually, they did it together. The disconnect between the Quynh Nicky had known and this version of her must’ve been staggering.  Impressively, he managed to rein it in almost immediately and go back to neutral.  </p><p>Quynh leaned back against the wall.  “When Andy is sorted out, I want your apologies.  No explanations.  I got all that from Booker.  But I want an honest fucking apology.” </p><p>“That much, I can promise you,” Nicky said solemnly.  </p><p>“Good.”  Quynh didn’t give an inch, but she didn’t look close to homicidal either.  Not closer than normal, anyway.  “Let’s go.”  She untucked herself and rose from the bed smoothly, because she was limber and graceful, which she kept rubbing in Booker’s face, because Booker was anything but.  </p><p>Right then, Booker didn’t even notice.  He stayed the hell in his chair.  As long as he remained where he was, he didn’t have to face what he’d done.  He didn’t have to go see how dead Andy was.  Because she was very dead now.  Quynh had taken a long time to revive and when he’d carried her into the house, Andy had still been a corpse.  And yes, they’d all known it was going to happen eventually, but somehow, he’d expected her to wake up again anyway.  He hadn’t looked at her directly, but the image of her pale, placid face was burnt into his memories nevertheless.  It was going to haunt him for a long time. </p><p>“Are you coming, Booker?” Nicky asked.  </p><p>Booker tried to become one with his chair while still looking as nonchalant as possible.  “You go ahead. I’ll catch up later.  I gotta…”  He gestured vaguely.  “…do.  Things.  In here.”  </p><p>This might’ve worked with Nicky, but Quynh smelled bullshit in the air like a truffle pig smelled smelly fungi.  And, because Quynh never let him get away with anything, she immediately changed course to come collect him.  He looked up reluctantly when she planted herself in front of him.  “Get up, Booker.” </p><p>Yeah, no.  </p><p>If Quynh wanted him to confront both the dead body of the woman who’d once cut him down from the gallows <i>and</i> the family he’d betrayed not so long ago, he’d need either a whole lot of therapy first or a whole lot to drink.  He tried to communicate as much with his face.  It seemed to work, because Quynh’s body language softened slightly.  </p><p>“Can’t hide away forever, Book,” she said gently.  </p><p>Watch him.  This chair was his new home now.  They’d spent the entire damn day hiking through the desert; he was exhausted enough that he might even fall asleep.  </p><p>Quynh kicked his ankle.  “Get up.  You’ll regret it if you don’t say goodbye.”  </p><p>That… was unfortunately in all probability true.  Then again, it also sounded like a problem for future!Booker.  Present!Booker was a coward and didn’t care who knew it.  </p><p>Quynh kicked him again, much less gently this time.  “Up,” she ordered.  “I’m not dealing with you weeping into your soup because you fucked this up.  Come on.  I’ll be right there with you.”  </p><p>Booker hesitated right until Quynh held out her hand.  Damn it.  He took the offer and let her pull him out of his chair.  All right, then.  Future nightmares, here he came.  And if he didn’t let go of Quynh’s hand, well, Quynh didn’t seem to mind and Nicky only smiled his inscrutable Nicky-smile and followed them outside.</p><hr/><p>The moon was rising pale over the mountain ridges when Booker, Quynh, and Nicky joined the others.  Andy was stretched out on the sun-warmed ground, her skin porcelain-white in the moonlight.  Someone had cleaned the blood from her face and closed her eyes.  Her mouth was relaxed in death, lips curled into the hint of a smile.  Her jacket was closed, so the hole in her chest wasn’t visible, and her hands lay open at her sides.  She looked peaceful.  It would’ve been easy to pretend she was just sleeping, if not for the pyre Joe was building nearby on a sandy patch.  He was nearly done with the foundation.  Nile was clearing the area of flammable vegetation, sniffling occasionally and wiping the wetness into her sleeve.  </p><p>Quynh ignored the two of them and dragged Booker over to Andy.  He went reluctantly, but when he finally forced himself to look at her, he had to admit it wasn’t quite as bad as he’d expected.  Andy hadn’t aged much over the past few years.  Maybe there was a little gray in her hair now.  Maybe her proud features looked a bit more angular, her crow’s feet a touch deeper.  It was still <i>Andy</i>, though, her face more familiar to him than his own, because he hadn’t been able to look at himself in a mirror long before she’d turned mortal.  </p><p>He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until she was lying dead at his feet.  Quynh had found him only a few weeks after he’d been exiled and then he’d been busy keeping her from psycho-killing them all and finding a therapist and then working on his own issues along with hers and before he’d known it, years had passed.  It happened sometimes, apparently.  The others had mentioned this, when they’d talked about what it was like to be so goddamn old that the centuries blurred, but he’d never really experienced time slipping by like this before.   </p><p>The fact that Andy had changed at all shook him deeply.  It drove home the point that, no, she wasn’t going to get up again this time.  This was it.  This was where the journey ended for Andromache of Scythia, far away from the lands where she’d been born, under a starry sky that had changed so much in her years of walking this earth that no-one from her time would’ve recognized it.  </p><p>Tears welled up in his eyes, hot and sudden, and his nose clogged up almost immediately.  This was why he hated crying so much.  He wasn’t the “single, glistening tear” type of crier.  Booker was all about the snot.  He snuffled discreetly, trying to get rid of the worst of it, but Satan himself must’ve been shoveling mucus into his sinus cavities, because how else could there have been this much of it out of fucking nowhere?  </p><p>Quynh, who’d seen him cry more than once before, sighed.  “You okay?” </p><p>Booker blinked the tears out of his eyes, but even as they spilled over his cheeks, more were welling up.  “No,” he grunted.  “Gimme back my tissues.” </p><p>“Oh.  Yeah, wait a–” Quynh rummaged through her pockets, then paused.  “Uhm.  I bled all over them.” </p><p>Figured.  Booker sighed wetly and dug through his jeans pocket until he located the single tissue he’d saved for himself.  It would have to do.  He fished it out and blew his nose.  His ears popped.  He hated crying, <i>so much</i>.  Also, his nose was still stuffed.  He blew again, loudly. </p><p>“You sound like a dying elephant,” Andy complained.  </p><p>“Fuck you,” Booker sniffed, reflexively, and honked again.  Which was when his brain caught up with his mouth.  He blinked, trying to see through the film of tears.  “Andy?” </p><p>“Yes,” came the testy reply.  “What kind of shitty fucking afterlife is this?”  </p><p>“This isn’t the afterlife,” Quynh snapped.  “You came back.  What the fuck?” </p><p>“Quynh?” Andy asked, bewildered.  “You’re real?  You’re really here?” </p><p>And then she oof-ed when somebody did a sliding baseball-tackle and collided with her, accompanied by a high-pitched sound.  </p><p>Booker blew out a final wad of snot, rubbed his arm across his eyes to get rid of the tears, and stared.  Ah.  Nile.  Though Joe and Nicky weren’t far behind, laughing and crying and hugging the stuffing out of a perplexed-looking Andy.  Andy patted whatever she could reach – mostly Nile’s head and Joe’s back – but her gaze stayed locked on Quynh, full of wonder and happiness.  </p><p>“This was not how this was supposed to go,” Quynh whined quietly.  Her fingers found Booker’s shirt sleeve and twisted.  “What am I supposed to do now?” </p><p>“I don’t know.”  Booker stuffed the used tissue back into his pocket and pulled a face when his breath whistled through still swollen nasal cavities.  “Try not to ruin the moment.”</p><p>“I hate you,” Quynh grumbled. </p><p>“No, you don’t,” Booker shot back, and then he turned and hugged her, because if he didn’t hug <i>someone</i> right then, he was going to explode.  Quynh squawked in indignation, but she didn’t struggle.  In fact, after a moment of stiffness to indicate her outrage at the undignified treatment, she put her arms around him and hugged him back.  His ribs creaked.  Booker smiled, buried his face in her hair, and held on.  </p><p>He didn’t care what happened next.  Andy had come back to them.  Quynh was off-balance, but not homicidal.  Nicky and Joe didn’t appear to be bothered by Booker’s presence, and Nile wouldn’t have to bury the only family she had left.  So the world was crawling with borderline immortal zombie people and civilization was on the brink of collapse.  </p><p>They’d survive.  </p><p>That’s what the Old Guard did.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Epilogue: The Girl with All the Gifts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two women were sitting on a big rock on a mountain ridge, watching the sun rise.  One of them was clutching a steaming cup of coffee, the other had brought a bowl of steak strips.  They were keeping a healthy distance, but the tension between them was manageable and neither of them had bothered to bring a weapon.  It was progress, of a sort.  </p><p>“So you really think that shit has boosted our immortality?” Quynh asked after a while, still a little skeptical.  </p><p>“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Andy said with a shrug.  “Maybe it doesn’t stop suddenly.  Maybe Nicky’s and Joe’s was starting to fade and that’s why they got scars and why the scars disappeared eventually.  It would explain why Nile didn’t react to it at all.  I think…”  She breathed out slowly.  “I think losing my immortality happened gradually after I brought in Nile.  My joints ached.  Nothing major, just.  There and gone and there again.”  </p><p>“You were mortal though, when you got bitten.” </p><p>Andy blew on her coffee and took a slurping sip.  Ah, sweet wakefulness.  This was coffee that could revive the dead.  Joe knew how to make her happy.  “I’m guessing here, Quynh.  Yes.  I was mortal.  But I’d been immortal before.”  She cleared her throat and glanced over briefly.  “You know what I think?  I think what tipped the scales was when I bit you.  I think that made me go back to immortal instead of going insane.  That’s what it felt like, at least.”  She looked back at the sunrise.  “I don’t know.  We’ll probably never know for sure.” </p><p>They sat in silence for a few minutes.  Andy sipped her coffee and Quynh chewed on her steak strips.  Both of them were very aware of the scar on Quynh’s throat.  It was healing, but she’d been snacking almost non-stop since she’d woken up.  Neither of them wondered out loud how much longer she would’ve lasted under the sea if she hadn’t surfaced when she had.  Baby steps.  </p><p>The breeze carried the scent of sage and warming earth.  It tangled in Andy’s short hair and the long, sable strands that had escaped Quynh’s braid.  The stone was still cool beneath their butts, but the view was more than worth the slight discomfort.  </p><p>“The file your friend sent you makes for interesting reading,” Quynh said eventually.  “You think Kozak is still in Atlanta?” </p><p>Andy pulled up one leg and wrapped her arms around her knee, enjoying the return of the thoughtless flexibility that came with a blessed lack of joint pain.  “No.  I think she ran back to familiar ground.  I think she’s in England, if she’s still alive.” </p><p>Quynh hummed thoughtfully.  “You going after her?” </p><p>“Don’t know yet,” Andy admitted.  “Don’t know if it’ll do us any good.  I’ll bring it up after lunch.  No matter what we decide, it’s time to get moving again.”  She shifted uncomfortably and risked another quick glance at her companion.  “Are you and Booker going to join us?” </p><p>One dark eyebrow arched up sharply.  “Booker’s still in exile, isn’t he?” </p><p>Andy snorted gracelessly.  “And I’m supposed to be dead.  Things change.  We change with them.  This isn’t the time to separate.”  </p><p>“No,” Quynh admitted, grudgingly.  “I agree.  Under the circumstances, we should probably stick together.”  She noticed Andy’s smile and lifted a hand in warning.  “For now.  We’ll talk again when we’ve dealt with this clusterfuck.  I think Book and I will need time on our own for a while, when this is over.  We’re not…” she hesitated, then she lifted her chin and met Andy’s gaze directly.  “We’re still working on it.  We’ll get there eventually.  But we’re not okay yet.  And neither are you and I.” </p><p>Andy swallowed, but nodded slightly.  “I know.” </p><p>“No pressure.”  </p><p>“No pressure,” Andy agreed.  “I’m sorry, Quynh.  I’m so, so sorry.” </p><p>She must’ve said it a hundred times since she’d woken up immortal again.  They both knew she was going to keep saying it.  That was all right.  Andy needed to say it and Quynh needed to hear it.  One day it would be enough and then they’d move on, but for now, this was what worked for them.  </p><p>“I’m glad you didn’t die,” Quynh muttered, hunching in on herself.  She still hated to talk about her emotions.  Fair was fair, though.  If she made Booker do it, she had to do the same.  That was the deal.  That was the way. </p><p>Andy beamed. </p><p>Quynh glared.  “Don’t let it go to your head.  I’m still mad at you.” </p><p>Andy nodded, still beaming.  She was so beautiful it made Quynh’s heart ache, but that wasn’t new either, was it?  She’d almost forgotten the feeling, but it had never truly left her.  </p><p>“Just shut up and watch the sunrise,” Quynh grumbled, and Andy nodded again, amiably, and rested her chin on her knee.  </p><p>They sat and watched the sun climb over the horizon, banishing the darkness with fingers of golden light.  Still the same sun, after all these centuries, and the beauty of it still took their breath away.  </p><p>“I’m glad I didn’t die, too,” Andy whispered into the quiet, and for the first time in over five hundred years, she meant it.  </p><p>It was good to be alive.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>If it's the end of the world<br/>I'm going down fighting<br/>With my finger on the trigger<br/>You'll know I gave it a shot</i>
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  <p>
    <i>If it's the end of the all<br/>God knows I'm trying<br/>Cause this world<br/>Is all that we got</i>
  </p>
  <p>Going Down Fighting<br/>(Phlotilla)</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><b>The End</b> <br/>(2020)</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please do not repost anywhere. </p><p>Feel free to podfic and/or translate, if you like! :) </p><p>If you’re checking to see who dies for good, the <b>character death</b> tag is for <b>James Copley</b> and Nile’s family.  </p><p> </p><p><b>Feedback Note:</b> Just so you know: I read every comment and I treasure every kind word. Chances are, I won’t reply, because I’m usually neck-deep in work and basically dropping this fic off in drive-by fashion. I’ll find the time to check in now and again anyway and OMG, yes, I love comments. I’m a writer, comments are like crack for me. </p><p>So if you decided to let me know you enjoyed my writing: <i>Thank you!!!</i> You just made my day. I love you, you’re the best.</p><p>And if you enjoyed my writing, but didn't feel like leaving feedback: That's cool, too. Glad you liked it. Maybe hit the kudos button? But no pressure.</p><p>And if you <i>didn't</i> enjoy my writing… uhm. Why are you still reading? Hit the back button. </p><p> </p><p>And now to the <b>story notes</b>, for those who are interested:</p><p><b>Kintsugi:</b> Kintsugi (金継ぎ, "golden joinery"), also known as kintsukuroi (金繕い, "golden repair"), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.</p><p><b>16123:</b> The code to Andy’s armory is the postal code for old town Genova.  </p><p> </p><p>These are the books that inspired the chapter titles: </p><p>Alma Katsu, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/Hunger-Alma-Katsu-ebook/dp/B071X2K32P/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?_encoding=UTF8&amp;qid=1598789399&amp;sr=8-2"><b>The Hunger</b></a></p><p>Craig DiLouie, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/dp/B00GMWIG0Q/ref=sr_1_2?__mk_de_DE=%C3%85M%C3%85%C5%BD%C3%95%C3%91&amp;dchild=1&amp;keywords=tooth+and+nail+dilouie&amp;qid=1598789552&amp;sr=8-2"><b>Tooth and Nail</b></a></p><p>J. L. Bourne, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/Day-Armageddon-J-L-Bourne-ebook/dp/B002PMVQ7W/ref=bmx_6/146-6567960-6659209?_encoding=UTF8&amp;pd_rd_i=B002PMVQ7W&amp;pd_rd_r=edee66be-1881-480a-a984-846f8a1ab990&amp;pd_rd_w=ScSO2&amp;pd_rd_wg=Y5fz8&amp;pf_rd_p=8cea7b83-adee-4ac8-bcfe-dcc442eb852a&amp;pf_rd_r=WVRXV9E9QZDZN9JHXP1X&amp;psc=1&amp;refRID=WVRXV9E9QZDZN9JHXP1X"><b>Day by Day Armageddon</b></a></p><p>Cracked.com, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/dp/B013PQLN06/ref=sr_1_2?__mk_de_DE=%C3%85M%C3%85%C5%BD%C3%95%C3%91&amp;dchild=1&amp;keywords=You+Might+Be+a+Zombie+and+Other+Bad+News%3A+Shocking+but+Utterly+True+Facts&amp;qid=1598790800&amp;sr=8-2"><b>You Might Be a Zombie and Other Bad News: Shocking but Utterly True Facts</b></a></p><p>Joe R Lansdale, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/Deadmans-Road-Joe-R-Lansdale/dp/161696104X/ref=sr_1_1?__mk_de_DE=%C3%85M%C3%85%C5%BD%C3%95%C3%91&amp;dchild=1&amp;keywords=deadman%27s+road&amp;qid=1598789322&amp;sr=8-1"><b>Deadman's Road</b></a></p><p>Lauren Wilson and Kristian Bauthus, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/dp/1940363365/ref=rtpb_34?ie=UTF8&amp;language=en_US&amp;pd_rd_i=1940363365&amp;pd_rd_r=dfbeaacb-8b69-4d3d-8fc6-15293a775964&amp;pd_rd_w=O3SoR&amp;pd_rd_wg=l72wK&amp;pf_rd_p=49740592-2805-416d-896c-b825ad91c2cf&amp;pf_rd_r=G77DWQD9Q3QW9YR3V6Y0&amp;psc=1&amp;refRID=G77DWQD9Q3QW9YR3V6Y0"><b>The Art of Eating through the Zombie Apocalypse: A Cookbook and Culinary Survival Guide</b></a></p><p>M. R. Carey, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/Girl-All-Gifts-M-Carey-ebook/dp/B00CO7FLFG/ref=sr_1_1?__mk_de_DE=%C3%85M%C3%85%C5%BD%C3%95%C3%91&amp;crid=33AADKMG4VZHD&amp;dchild=1&amp;keywords=the+girl+with+all+the+gifts+book&amp;qid=1598789629&amp;refinements=p_n_feature_browse-bin%3A618073011&amp;rnid=618072011&amp;s=books&amp;sprefix=the+girl+with+all%2Caps%2C249&amp;sr=1-1"><b>The Girl with All the Gifts</b></a></p><p> </p><p>And a bonus book, because it’s awesome and a zombie classic:</p><p>Max Brooks, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/de/World-War-Z-Max-Brooks-ebook/dp/B07H2LC5ZR/ref=pd_sim_351_10?_encoding=UTF8&amp;pd_rd_i=B07H2LC5ZR&amp;pd_rd_r=27aeb784-1674-43a6-9c24-b8a7b571f320&amp;pd_rd_w=visXF&amp;pd_rd_wg=wBPMa&amp;pf_rd_p=50fdecc9-bf07-4d35-ad07-39e73888f6b9&amp;pf_rd_r=CWH1AJSA9D6CR3K00NF7&amp;psc=1&amp;refRID=CWH1AJSA9D6CR3K00NF7"><b>World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War</b></a> </p><p> </p><p>I hope you enjoyed this ride! I sure had a lot of fun. :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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